Excelsior
by LauraHuntORI
Summary: Why did Esca Mac Cunoval throw down his sword and shield and refuse to fight in the Saturnalian Games?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **My grandmother's Latin grammar had about seven four leaf clovers pressed in it. I would say, therefore, that the language must have been very lucky to her.

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

It was years since they'd taken his torc from him, but as he faced the giant in the Janus mask, it was as though the familiar weight had settled again around his neck.

Janus was their god of changes, he knew. Come to escort him to the land of the dead. Brigantia must have established an alliance with him, that The Elevated One should have sent the likeness of a Roman deity to bring him across.

Fine. He would face it as his mother had.

He let his arms hang down by his sides. He was ready. _God of doors, I accept your embassy._

Unbidden, the thought entered his mind that perhaps he could defeat the giant. A moment only, then the imaginary torc pressed into his throat again. His life belonged to the goddess, not to him.

_His mother knelt before his father, a willing sacrifice. Her bright blood cascaded forth. _

_She made no sound. _

Her bravery unmanned him, for he himself was _not willing. _

Around the arena, a murmur of impatience arose. Esca took a moment to scan the crowd. He despised them. The goddess might be demanding his death, but he was not required to provide them with _entertainment._

With a rippling movement of strong arms, he threw off both sword and shield. His death would be on _his terms_, not theirs.

**_Wham!_**

Or not.

The blow from the two-faced gladiator relieved the crowd's boredom, but failed to please them.

Esca went down, but was back on his feet immediately, only to be struck again.

And again.

And again. Well, if it wasn't the worst beating he'd ever had, at least it would be the last.

Then, flat on his back on the muddy ground of the arena, the gladiator's sword brushing his sternum, Esca found his lungs laboring to pull in his final breaths. Never, in his whole life, had he so wished to go on living. _Exalted One, let him finish it before I shame myself completely. _

A hundred voices yelled "Kill him!"

No man should beg for his life.

"Life!"

The sentiment was Esca's, but the voice was not his own.

"Life!" It was a Roman. His toga rippled in the wind. It seemed to Esca that the man addressed him personally.

_I want to live, _Esca thought, _but it isn't up to me. _

The Roman knew it, too. The patrician turned to others in the crowd. "Come on, you fools, get those thumbs up!" he yelled, until all the voices were yelling, "Life!"

The sword was withdrawn; Esca rose disbelievingly from the mud. He was still alive, thanks to the young Roman.

But what now?

"Before this night is over," his 'owner' promised, as he shoved the Brigante backstage, "you'll wish he had killed you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **_"Where do we find allies?" [He] smiled. "Among our enemies, where else?"_ ―Half the World_, _Joe Abercrombie

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

The guard's parting shove was hard enough to make Esca hit the ground with his knees. He didn't care. No sooner had the door of the semi-subterranean cell clanged shut, than then Briton's hands were digging through the sandy dirt of the floor.

Only when the worn bone handle was nestled once again in his palm did he relax.

Relax and despair. _Father, a Roman saved me. _He sighed wearily.

_A Roman. _Rome was the enemy. The Romans had burned their villages, killed their people, salted their fields—

The Romans had taken everything from him: tribe, family, land, and possessions.

Yet now a Roman had given him… all he had left.

Himself.

His very life.

His eyes weren't merely dry, they were gritty with sand from the arena, but could Esca have wept, he would have done it. Because he was so ashamed—his filthy fingers squeezed the handle of the little dagger convulsively—so ashamed of being so intensely grateful to his enemy for saving him.

* * *

He'd been alone with his achingly hopeful grief for minutes only when the door clanged open again.

"Come, wash yourself," the burly guard commanded, "and put these on." He dropped a bundle of cloth next to the prisoner. The tunic was old, dyed with woad, a pale blue-gray, like a stormy summer afternoon; the short trousers a soft, faded brown. Far nicer clothes than he'd had since his arrival at the circus. He stared up in surprise.

The guard smiled in genuine amusement. "Do you think the master wants to see you naked in your dirt?"

Esca looked down, wondering how he could hide the dagger currently hidden beneath his new clothes with the guard watching him from the cell door—

The guard smirked. "Be sure to bring that little toy you've be hiding with you, for you won't be coming back." At Esca's questioning look, the big man explained, "The gods have made a miracle. The master's found someone stupid enough to buy you."

* * *

Beppo stepped out into the passage to take the slave from his guard. He yanked the Briton close to whisper, "If you do anything to screw up this sale, I will take great delight in flaying you alive."

Esca said nothing, his attention drawn to the old man seated in the room beyond.

A sharp fingernail poked into the flesh near his elbow. "I'll stick my dagger in here," his master whispered, "and peel off your skin bit by bit, until your entire ungrateful hide is lying in a bloody heap at my feet. On second thought, go ahead and act the fool in there, so the old man changes his mind. I'll enjoy killing you." With that, the captain of the gladiators placed a meaty hand on his reluctant slave's back and shoved him unceremoniously into the room.

* * *

Esca recognized him. It was the graybeard on whose shoulder the young Roman's hand had rested when he stood to exhort the crowd to show Esca a mercy he had not deserved.

Of course, it would be him. How could it be anyone else?

The room seemed unbearably warm suddenly, but it was really his shame that burned him, he knew. He should be dead at this very moment, like his mother, like his brothers, like his father. What right had he to be alive?

The dagger hidden under his tunic pressed comfortingly into his side. Despite his total mortification, it was very sweet to be alive to feel it. A tiny tendril of hope began to unfurl inside him. He made himself meet the old man's eyes, silently acknowledging the connection between them, too obvious to be mentioned, even had it been Esca's place to speak, which it manifestly was not.

For once the Briton was happy to lower his gaze, as a proper slave should. The old Roman's eye was too knowing, he saw right through the younger man's sham indifference.

"I've bought you," the old man told him at last, "to serve my nephew."

No need to ask who his nephew was. Esca concentrated on keeping his breathing steady in the whirlwind of his emotions. He did not understand his feelings, though they were welling up, straining his control nearly to the breaking point.

This old man, had bought him to serve… _him. _He wanted—he didn't want—

He didn't know what he wanted.

But he knew what he owed.

The Roman had saved him.

It was right that he should serve him. It was just.

For a moment, the thought steadied him. He was Brigante, and he owed the young Roman a debt of honor. He let out a breath, and nodded. "Thank you," he said.

The old man had been studying Esca in his turn, and having looked his new property over, he inquired, "What's your name?"

"Esca, son of Cunoval," was the unthinking reply.

The old Roman smiled, not unkindly, before loosing a chuff of laughter. "You're my slave, lad. I really don't care who your father is."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **In the end, we all dangle upside down over the cauldron of the gods.

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

It seemed that Esca's bare feet offended his new owner, for he pronounced the single word, "Sandals," in an annoyed tone.

The Briton opened his mouth to say he had none, but it was not his new slave the old man addressed. Beppo left the room, to return almost immediately with a battered pair of sandals. Their excellent fit was unsurprising; they were the footwear Esca had arrived in a few days (which now seemed a lifetime) before.

Without being told, Esca sank to his haunches to tie the frayed leather laces hastily, then rose to find his old master grinning at him in a way that made his hackles rise and a shiver run along his spine.

"Don't care for the old man?" Beppo inquired. "I think I know a vivisectionist who might take you."

Esca looked around hastily.

The old Roman was gone.

* * *

To his relief, he easily caught sight of the old man on the footpath which led from the circus on the outskirts of Calleva Arebatum back into the town proper. The old Roman was not waiting; he moved at a steady clip away from the arena, and he did not look back to see if his property was following him.

The son of the Brigantes stood at gaze a moment, bewildered. Did the old man not want him after all?

Small blame to him if he didn't. Esca had had a string of owners in the past three years and more, and not one of them had failed to assure him of his utter worthlessness, until the last of them had proven the truth of his assessment by sending his recalcitrant slave to his death (as he thought) in the arena. Why would the old man want him? Why would anyone?

But he'd paid good money to that evil spawn of— so why—? Esca jerked himself back into motion, speeding past the slowly dispersing revelers after his purchaser, and remembered he'd been bought, not for the old man's own use, but for his nephew's. Probably the nephew had sent the old one, and the disapproving uncle thought it would be just as convenient to save an argument by letting Esca slip quietly away. He was unbound. It would be easy.

He toyed with the idea, following the long strides of the elderly Roman through the paved streets of the little town. He could get himself to the coast perhaps, and cross the sea to Éire, to his mother's birth tribe. It would not be home, but he'd be away from the Romans, and the Irish Brigantes would accept him for his mother's sake, he thought, provided times were good. If they weren't, well, he'd worry about that later.

But what of _him_? _He _would be disappointed.

He had saved Esca's life.

Esca bit his lip. In his mind, the old one explained that yes, he'd bought the wretch, just as his nephew had asked, but alas—the old man sighed like a seanchaidhe– the faithless, honourless one had gone, had fled without so much as a word of gratitude.

His savior's imagined disappointment cut him like a knife. He'd feel that his efforts to turn the crowd's intention, to save him, had been a waste. Esca could flee, but forgetting his debt to the young Roman would not pay it. And Esca knew himself well enough to know that he wouldn't be able to forget the debt. He nodded to himself. He would stay.

Having settled the matter to his satisfaction, at least in his own mind, Esca looked around, and realized to his horror, that regardless of his intention, he could not pay his debt, because the old man was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Remember: reviews are love.

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

He was a thousand kinds of fool. A jinx. An evil omen, even to himself.

Why hadn't he kept his eyes on the old man? He hurried forward, searching the crowd for the tousled white hair, but he knew in his bones that it was useless. Suddenly, every place the two-faced giant had hit him ached afresh. How could he be so stupid and yet live? The streets were lively with the same holiday atmosphere that had prevailed in the arena, except when the spectators had been yelling for his death.

Or perhaps then as well.

He looked carefully at each lone man, scrutinized each little knot of pedestrians. Come on. The man was here somewhere. He had to be.

But where? He could roam the town all night without finding the old man. People in the street jostled past him, some cheerful, some cursing the obstruction that was Esca. The Briton ignored them; they were not his quarry.

He would have liked to ask someone, but he'd not been told the old Roman's name. Finally, he stopped and heaved a gusty sigh. There was no help for it. He was going to have to go back to the amphitheatre and ask Beppo.

He _really _did not want to do that. He had a strong suspicion about what a vivisectionist was, and hoped he was not going to find out the truth of his guess. Furthermore, he wasn't willing to bet so much as an _as _that the captain of the gladiators had only been joking when he made that threat, even if he'd had one of the little coins to his name, which he didn't. Doubtless the man would be glad to pocket Esca's price twice in the same day. _The Briton? I haven't seen him since you left. He must have run away… _

Esca shuddered and felt the bone handle of the little dagger pressing into his side. _Father, Mother, help me. I need to find the old Roman. _He was mad to ask his parents for help in finding one of their killers. _Goddess—_

"A bhuachaill!"

Just so had Esca's mother called him a thousand times in childhood. He couldn't not look.

A middle-aged market woman met his eyes. "An túsa Esca?" she asked.

Esca nodded. How did she know his name?

"Old Aquila told me to tell you that unless your stride is as long as Lugh's, you're lagging rather more than three paces to his rear." She pointed far up the street, and Esca saw the old Roman just turning the corner. Joy and sweet relief filled him.

"Tá failte romhat, a mháthair!" Esca called in gratitude, then took off up the street at a run.

Every lump the Janus-mask had given him throbbed, and he had a stitch in his side to boot, but when the Roman graybeard at last reached his villa and turned to look, Esca was right where he was supposed to be, three paces to the rear.

The old man, Aquila, looked at him without surprise, as though he'd expected nothing else, as though he'd never left his message with the market woman. Silently the old man motioned him to step across the threshold. Esca did so, followed closely by the old man.

They paused outside the door. "I'll go in first," Aquila whispered. "Wait here until you're called."

"Stephanos!"

It was _him._ The young Roman. Esca began to tremble very slightly, but nodded his understanding, and the older man stepped across the threshold into his nephew's chamber, just as the young Roman called again, "Stephanos!"

_Who was Stephanos? _

The answer came immediately, for just inside the next room, the old Roman was explaining to the young one, "I decided Stephanos is too old to serve two masters. I bought you your own body slave."

_What? _**You**_ decided –_

"I don't need my own slave," the irritated voice of his savior proclaimed petulantly from the next room.

_He didn't tell the old man to buy me? _

"Marcus," the old man was saying in a warning tone.

"I should have been consulted," Marcus insisted.

_He doesn't want me. _Esca shook his head, confused. _Why am I here?_

"Yeah. Well, you weren't," Marcus' uncle was saying. "Slave!"

It took Esca a moment to realize it was his cue. He entered cautiously, only to be pushed forward by old Aquila's palm against his back in a manner reminiscent of the guards pushing him into the arena earlier that day.

Marcus looked at him, recognized him, then looked away. Esca's heart tightened. No, he was not wanted. Not at all. A pain that was not physical lanced through him. He did not know how he was to make sense of this world if this man who had saved him wouldn't accept his service.

"His name's Esca," old Aquila said, before leaving the two young men alone together.

"I have no use for you," Marcus confirmed dismissively.

_No use? You were calling for a slave when I walked in,_ Esca thought, but what he said was, "I had no wish to be bought." _What use would you have had for 'Stephanos'? _

"You should have run," the young Roman opined. "My uncle wouldn't have stopped you."

_He didn't know the half of it. _Plainly between them was the unspoken correlation; he could run now, as well. Marcus wouldn't stop him either.

"You saved my life," the Briton pointed out the obvious. "I have a debt of honor to you now." If Esca had had no wish to be bought, he had no wish to be sent away either. He lowered his head submissively.

"Against your wish."

_Against my— do you think I wanted to die? _ Esca raised his eyes to meet the Roman's and explained, "No man should ever beg for his life."

"You didn't. I did. On your behalf, and— I meant nothing by it." Marcus looked away, out into the garden.

_There was nothing left. Nothing. Unless—_

Suddenly, the dagger was in his hand, the bone handle warm against his palm, his index finger resting against the blade as he pointed it at the young Roman, his enemy, the enemy of his people.

"I'm a son of the Brigantes, who never broke his word." He threw the dagger to the floor. "My father's dagger is my bond. I hate everything you stand for, everything you are. But you saved me, and for that I must serve you." Esca lowered his head again, and this time his submission was total.

_Goddess, let him accept me, or else let him pick up the dagger and finish the job he stopped the Janus–mask from doing. _

He did not even allow himself to hope. He just waited for the decision. He owed Marcus his life, so if the Roman's decision was against him—so be it. It was, after all, his to take, if that was his wish.

The silence was the very antithesis of the noise earlier in the crowded arena, but the stakes were the same. Esca felt again the pressure of his missing torc. He watched dust motes dance in the sunlit doorway past where Marcus stood, and wondered if they'd be the last thing he'd ever see.

Then, very gently, on the merest exhalation of breath, a whispered command: "Untie my sandals," yet it was enough to cause the Briton to sink gracefully to his knees and bend forward to free his master's ankle from the entangling laces.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **The kitchen is the heart of the home.

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

As in any good Roman household, the _culina_, where food was prepared, was the province of slaves. Esca approached it with caution. The Aquilas, _avunculus et nepos_, might have accepted him, but there was still the unknown _Stephanos_ to consider. One's fellow slaves could often be more difficult to deal with than one's masters.

He hesitated in the doorway of the smoky little room, uncertain of his welcome, and watched the white-haired man whom he supposed must be the mysterious Hellene standing at the work table arranging a bowl and some fruit on a small bronze tray. Behind him, a charcoal fire burned in a masonry counter brazier, and Esca, who had thought the house soulless because it lacked a central hearth, was vaguely comforted. Hidden here with its slaves it might be, at least the house _had _a heart. That was something.

The Greek spoke. "You're Esca?" he inquired.

The Briton nodded.

"Old Aquila tells me he's bought you to serve young Marcus." The look on the old man's face said he hadn't decided yet what he thought about that. "I'm Stephanos." As the finishing touch, the old man set a clay cup on the tray. "He says there's to be no proper _cena _tonight. Thinks the games tired his nephew out too much."

Esca thought of the young Roman's grayish countenance. "He's probably right."

"I'll take this tray to the _tablinum_ in a bit. How about the young one? Does he want some supper?"

"He says not. He had me help him into bed."

The old man nodded. "He never eats much. Not like a young man should. You'll have to do something about that."

Esca wondered what the Hellene thought he could do.

"What about you?"

Esca was puzzled. "Me?"

"Are you hungry?"

He should be. Yet he felt no emptiness, only a knot in his belly. He nodded anyway. Sometimes hunger left long enough manifested itself that way, and in any event, experience had taught him that any slave who refused food was a fool.

"Sit," the Greek instructed. "I'll get you something."

There was a stool nearby, and Esca sank down onto it with a sigh. _What was he going to do? He couldn't just—_

"Here." Stephanos handed him a bowl of brown porridge, then watched the young man dip the spoon into it, and slowly raise it to his mouth. Eyelids nearly purple with fatigue closed over the blue-gray eyes.

The porridge was made of wheat, the high-status corn favored by the Romans. This had been gently cooked down to a soft, pleasing jelly that caressed his tongue with sensual nourishment as easing to the heart as to the hunger which had roared to life in the presence of food. _Aen, taen, tethera, fethera, phubs—_

The slender hand gripping the spoon shook with rigidly supressed desire until the count had reached ten, then dipped again into the wheat pap. Esca kept his eyes closed, but didn't even try to feign indifference, because the second spoonful was shear bliss. _Gods, he'd almost forgotten what food tasted like. Aen, taen, tethera, feth—_

"How long since you last ate?" Stephanos inquired softly.

The boy swallowed, but didn't open his eyes. He licked his lips. "Three days. They don't waste food on those about to die."

The old man nodded. "Slowly then, as you've been doing, or you'll make yourself sick."

Esca sighed. He knew all about that. Too well. A surge of bitterness rose in him, and to quench it, he opened his eyes and said, "This is delicious, Stephanos. I'm grateful."

The older slave laughed. "You _must _be hungry if you think so. I don't get such praise from Aquila. Speaking of which, I'd better take him his tray."

"I'll take it," Esca offered, quickly. He could use an excuse to—

"You will _not_." Stephanos drew himself up haughtily. "I am Aquila's body slave; I will serve him."

_Oops. _The Briton lowered his head submissively. "I'm sorry, Stephanos, I wasn't thinking. I only meant-"

"I know," the old man relented. "Eat your porridge. I'll be back in a moment, and I'll explain how things work here."

Esca nodded. He had a feeling he was going to be spending a lot of his time from now on apologizing to the old Hellene. It was a pity about the tray though, because excuse or no excuse, he knew he was going to have to talk to old Aquila tonight.

* * *

Aquila had finished eating and returned to his scroll. He was just contemplating calling Stephanos to light the lamp when a noise in the passageway made him look up. It was the new slave, Esca.

The old Roman chuckled. "My nephew throw you out already?"

The boy shook his head.

"That's good." He wondered what the boy was doing here in his study. "Stephanos give you something to eat and show you around?"

The boy nodded, his hair appearing almost bronze in the dim light.

"Stephanos send you to get my tray?" Aquila suggested. _That certainly woke him up. I think he actually jumped. _

Esca glanced back down the corridor as if afraid Stephanos would catch him.

"No," he whispered. _If he came back to the kitchen with Aquila's tray, Stephanos would kill him._

"Then what is it you want?" Aquila finally demanded. The old Roman had little patience for guessing games. "Tell me, or get back to my nephew where you belong."

The young man moistened his lips. "About your nephew… he needs a healer."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: **_"When you begin to see that your enemy is suffering, that is the beginning of insight."_ ―Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life_, _Thích Nhất Hạnh

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

The warp threads had been dyed with madder, the weft with woad. Time and many washings had blended the lovely heathering into a muted, muddy kind of purple, but examined closely, as Esca was doing now, the original variegated pattern remained, the bits of red and blue a kind of palimpsest of the weavers art, evidence of its former glory. Memory surged, the loom in his parents' roundhouse, strung with bright colors, a woman's clever fingers working a soft cloud of wool, the fine yarn emerging from her fist to wind itself effortlessly around the spindle. Home. He brushed the soft wool against his cheek, remembering…

The folded tunic had been sitting on the floor next to him when he awoke. Which of the three men had left it for him? He glanced towards the bed. Not Marcus, certainly. Had the young Roman so much as stirred, Esca would have heard. Even now, his savior's breathing, while somewhat labored, was regular with sleep.

Stephanos was the most likely suspect; it was hard to imagine stately old Aquila sneaking in here to lay the gift of a tunic on the floor. A smile ghosted across his narrow face at the thought. It was Aquila who had thought to buy him, after all. Strange household he'd been brought to. _Thank you, Goddess. _

The Briton's ears perked. Had Marcus' breathing changed? He rose and crossed to the bed. The young Roman still slept, but he'd twisted his leg in the bedcoverings, and his breathing had changed to what sounded like distressed gasps of pain. Esca freed the blanket gently, then drew it up to check the wound.

Bright blood had blossomed in the center of the bandage, newly wet and brilliant crimson, but surrounded by an uneven oblong of blood dried to brown, mottled with blotches of cream colored ooze.

Marcus had refused to allow him to change the dressing the night before, had insisted he was 'fine,' that the wound was 'healing.'

If whatever was under that bandage was healing, then he was Antoninus Pius. He sincerely hoped old Aquila had believed him.

* * *

Marcus was no fool. He knew Esca had told and was clearly angry about it, not that he said so. Just pierced his bondsman with a look of betrayal when Uncle Aquila informed him that a surgeon had been sent for.

Esca wondered why he felt so guilty. The wound had to be seen to, whether Marcus willed it or no. He would have gone to pray for the surgeon's success, but Aquila bid him stay during the examination, either out of kindness (since he had shown he was concerned), or for the sake of having someone there to do the medical man's bidding should the need arise, and Esca realized that even had he been allowed to leave, he owned nothing that could serve as a votive offering save the dagger already in pawn to Marcus as the pledge of his service. So all he could do was stand in the doorway, watching and listening, his left hand clasping the god's marks that encircled his upper arm in gesture of empty supplication, and silently beg Llew of the Steady Hand to guide the surgeon in his work. _Save him as he saved me. _

The surgeon was not encouraging. "Who searched this wound?"

"The surgeon at the fort." Marcus told him.

"Was he drunk? I've never seen such a mess. You must have been in constant pain."

_In constant pain, but still able to see and respond to another person's need. _

"They sent him two hundred leagues in a mule cart. Nearly killed him." Aquila offered helpfully.

"We're gonna have to reopen it." The surgeon declared. "There's still metal in there."

"Well," old Aquila rose as he said it, "if it's gotta be done, better do it, right?"

Esca moved aside from the doorway to allow the old man passage.

The surgeon rose, too. "It'll be over before you know it," he told his patient. "I have the best knives in the business."

Excellent thought. He could make a blood sacrifice. He'd get a knife from Stephanos and make a cut on his palm—

After the two older men had left, Marcus addressed him: "Some wine," he ordered. Relieved that the man was still speaking to him, Esca obeyed.

* * *

The surgeon wanted Marcus moved to the triclinium where the light was better, and for a while they were all kept busy arranging things as the medical man wished. When all was prepared, the surgeon asked, "Ready?"

"Ready," Marcus confirmed.

Esca, who'd once had a wound reopened himself, and had a pretty clear idea of just how much it was going to hurt, was not. He looked to Marcus, lying on the table. His blue eyes met Marcus' green a little wildly. He did not want to see this.

Nor did Marcus want him to see it. "You can go," he said shortly.

Esca started to leave, but the voice of the surgeon arrested him. "No, I'm gonna need the slave to hold you down."

The way he pronounced the word 'slave' made Esca's skin creep. The word 'vivisection' floated through his mind. But he turned back obediently.

"Can't my uncle do it?" Marcus asked. He didn't want Esca there any more than the Briton wanted to remain. Some things are private. Like pain.

"Me?" Uncle Aquila wanted no part of it either. "No. No, I've grown to hate the sight of blood." He almost chuckled his refusal. "Especially the blood of someone I'm quite fond of. Be strong," he said, before leaving.

Marcus laid his head back on the dining table in defeat.

"Quickly, now," the surgeon urged. "Hold him down."

The surgeon had actually tied Marcus' lower body down with straps. Esca placed his hands on the young Roman's shoulders awkwardly, not sure his touch was welcome. It wasn't. Marcus turned his head so he wouldn't have to look at the one who had called this ordeal down on him.

For his part, Marcus dreaded shaming himself before this Briton, who had faced down a gladiator unafraid, who had scorned death itself. He wasn't so brave, he knew. Looking anywhere else was preferable.

The surgeon was disgusted. The slave was smaller and lighter than his master. He'd be thrown off like a terrier tossing a rat. "Put your weight on him, slave! Harder!"

Esca shifted so most of his weight lay across Marcus' upper body, then realizing any movement to rise would have to start with the Roman's head, he pressed his palm down against Marcus' forehead.

It was a more effective position for keeping the Roman still, but it meant the young men could not avoid each other's eyes.

"Take a deep breath," the surgeon instructed.

Esca looked into his master's eyes, and his own breath caught.

"When I say 'now' let it out." A pause. "'Now!'"

The Roman bucked and shuddered under him, straining against the surgeon's knife, against the straps, against Esca's body, arms, and palm, against his own agony, yet for all that, he made little more outcry than he'd made that morning in his sleep. For a timeless moment, the two young men, master and slave, were held together in an intimacy of pain, and the Briton realized that the blood sacrifice required by the gods this day was not his, but Marcus' own.

* * *

Worry and guilt are poor companions, but they were all Esca had as he waited for the Marcus to wake. _Let him be angry with me if he must, but let him recover. _

The Roman stirred at last, and Esca rose to give him a drink of water.

"Did I shame myself?" Marcus asked huskily.

Mutely, the Briton shook his head.

"Thank you," Marcus said. And he didn't mean just for the water.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **_Sometimes even to live is an act of courage._ –Lucius Annaeus Seneca

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

In the frigid depths of night, Aquila woke. He was sweating, despite the cold. He had had the dream again, of his brother Flavius, and the loss of the _Aquila_, the bronze eagle standard of the Ninth Legion. What had happened to him? And to the eagle?

Aquila, a career soldier and ultimately camp commandant himself, had never really lived the notoriety down. None of the family had. _An Aquila had lost the Aquila. _

Marcus was very like his father. Had Flavius been wounded, as Marcus was? Had he suffered, as the boy did?

The old man breathed in the cold night air. How could he and Stephanos have failed to see that the wound was not healing? Well, the boy wasn't one to complain. Perhaps they'd been too close, too accustomed to the injury, to see its true condition.

But the Briton slave had seen it… Esca. The name make him smile. In Latin, it meant… meat… bait… tasty tidbit.

He had bought the boy for Marcus, because… he wasn't sure why. Perhaps he had been bait at that. The first thing his nephew had taken an interest in, since his injury.

He remembered the Briton's face in the arena, scorning death, unafraid.

Brave.

Young men are brave. Old men—

–are old.

Aquila decided that since he was awake, he might as well check on his nephew.

* * *

Marcus' body slave slept curled in a ball on the tiled floor just inside the chamber door. He was uncovered in the chill night.

Odd. The night before, when Aquila had laid the tunic next to the boy, he'd been covered by a sleeping cloak. What had happened to it?

The old Roman abandoned the mystery in favor of approaching the bed.

Marcus slept more or less peacefully, though perhaps a bit feverish. At least he seemed warm enough. Leaning over the bed, he saw that his nephew's usual bed coverings had been supplemented by his long woolen toga, folded into thirds, and by the sleeping cloak that had formerly covered his slave.

* * *

Stephanos regarded the decapitated body of his young fellow slave where it sprawled across the tiled floor in exasperation. Why was the boy always trying to change things?

"Are you saying it won't work?" If the boy's lilting accent sounded strange in Latin, it sounded even odder in Greek, and more bizarre still emerging from the metal bowels of the disused furnace.

"No, I'm not saying that," the irritated Hellene fumed.

"Then what are you saying?" Esca's missing head emerged from the furnace door, the short bronze-colored strands of hair dusted with gray ash many seasons old.

Two straight nights listening to Marcus' chattering teeth had convinced the Briton that steps needed to be taken, and if no one else would take those steps, he would have to do it himself.

Try convincing Stephanos though.

"I'm saying there're only two of us, in case you haven't noticed, and I have better things to do all day than tend to your fire."

"You won't have to."

"You won't have time to tend it either!"

"It won't take that much time—"

"I'm not so old that I've forgotten how many slaves it takes to keep one of these things running!"

"I have an idea how to get around that," Esca repeated. He thought a moment, then asked uncertainly, "Should we ask Aquila for permission?"

Stephanos snorted. "As if he cares what we do as long as he has his books, gets his food, and I let him win at latrunculi."

Well, then. "Are you going to give me the money or not?" Esca reminded the old man.

"Your Greek is terrible, you know that?"

"I know," Esca admitted, "that's why I want to practice." After a pause, "The money?"

"You'd better come back here with everything on that list."

"I will, Stephanos."

"You're a stubborn fool," the old Greek complained.

"Then you'd better give in," the younger man teased.

Stephanos shook his head, but handed over the coins, then watched worriedly as his fellow slave headed out the door.

* * *

That night, as Aquila sat up conning one of his prized scrolls, he smelled something funny.

…and he realized it was almost—

–warm.

He leaned down, and placed a cautious hand on the tessellated floor, then moved to check the wall as well. Impossible.

"Stephanos!" Aquila called.

His Greek body slave came running.

"Stephanos," the old Roman asked urbanely, "is the house by any chance on fire?"

"The surgeon instructed us to keep the patient warm," the Hellene pointed out.

"Arson seems a bit extreme." Aquila looked at his body slave expectantly. They both knew the little household could not afford the expense of running the hypocaust.

Stephanos wondered just what it might be best to say. "The only thing on fire is the blocks of dirt that boy you bought has stacked in the furnace."

* * *

For once warm enough, wrapped in the sleeping cloak, and with no clicking of tooth enamel across the room to keep him awake, the Briton slept.

Only very lightly, however.

"Esca?"

The slave rose immediately to attend to his charge, offering water in the red clay drinking vessel, his free hand supporting the patient's head to help him drink.

When he had assuaged his thirst, Marcus said, "Am I still fevered, or is it actually warm tonight?"

Esca laid a slender hand on the Roman's broad forehead, then moved it to curve gently along his rounded cheek. "You're not feverish now," he said. "It's warm. Go back to sleep, and soon you'll be well again."

Marcus smiled at his slave and drifted obediently back to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **_The positive energy and love we give to others, heals our own wounds._ ― Angie Karan Krezos

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

"Ow!" For once it was Esca's hand, rather than his master's leg, that was of concern.

Marcus' leg was healing. All four of the men could see the difference, the wound still red, but safely closed, and no longer erupting angrily.

_Finally_, as both Stephanos and Marcus had phrased it to Esca, each in their different ways. Aquila did not confide his feelings to his nephew's body slave, but the Briton thought the old uncle was relieved. If in a sometimes rather inappropriately jovial way. His praise of the surgeon, at any rate, was not unfounded.

So far, in fact, had the young Roman's health improved, that he had agreed to appear in the dining room for the evening meal for the first time since the room had been used for his surgery, and Stephanos, in consequence, was planning a celebratory feast. Uncle Aquila, something of a gourmand, happily approved.

Esca himself had been caught up in the older men's excitement to the extent of offering to prepare a dish of beef cooked in nettle broth. Unfortunately, his skills in gathering the fuzzy leaves were not as well developed as those of the women of his tribe, and the wild plants were punishing him accordingly.

_Ouch! How did the girls do it? _He wondered, hissing as the stinging nettles bit into his fingers once again. _This food bites back. And I don't have half enough… _He persevered, however, as it was one of his favorite dishes: the very taste of springtime, once the leaves had been cooked into submission. He hoped to tempt Marcus' appetite; sore hands seemed a small price to pay. And he enjoyed the excuse to be out in the woods alone for a while.

Sometimes the all-male, repressed, almost depressed atmosphere of the town villa Aquilae got to him. Some mystery there, which he had not yet had sufficient time to plumb. He missed seeing women, and children. He winced as yet another stinger bit his palm. Did they have no friends? Probably it had just been because Marcus wasn't well. Now that he's getting better, they should start seeing more people. Until then, he'd just have to beg Stephanos to let him do the marketing.

To his own surprise, he laughed when the next plant shot half a dozen tiny needles into the back of his hand. Even if it hurt, it was good to be alive. He twirled the sprig of fighting leaves in his fingers. "I'm going to enjoy eating you," he told the plant.

* * *

His wounds were not invisible, he found. "What happened to your hands?" Marcus asked, as Esca helped his master wash and dress for dinner.

"Nothing," Esca mumbled. He would have liked to hide the evidence, but his hands were needed for his task.

Marcus captured his slave's right hand and brought it up between them where he could examine it. The slender bones fluttered gently in his grasp, like a captured bird. "Looks painful," the Roman opined, a certain lively amusement peeking from the green eyes.

_He's definitely improving, _Esca thought. He wanted badly to yank his hand away, but knew better than to give in to the impulse. His hand was Marcus' property. He swallowed. "It's nothing compared to your leg," he answered breathlessly.

Marcus released him. "Point taken," he conceded, but not angrily. "Very well, be a man of mystery, if you wish it."

Esca nodded and returned to arranging the Roman's apparel.

* * *

He had misjudged the family's social status, Esca saw, as he brought in a plate of olives, one of the _gustus _course dishes and set it on the low table. More _equite_ than _patrician_: the family did not recline. Aquila sat upright on a bench at the head of the table, and Marcus was seated, upright also, on the long side of the table to his right. Esca still stood at gaze, taking this in, and rearranging his mental idea of the family, when Stephanos arrived from the _culina _with a plate of bread. The Greek set it on the table in front of old Aquila, then seated himself on the bench across from his master's nephew, on his master's left.

Esca blinked in surprise. Stephanos looked up at him impatiently. "What are you waiting for?" the older slave asked. "Sit down."

The younger slave shot a glance across the table at his master, but saw only polite waiting in the green eyes. _What is this? What's going on? _Esca wondered silently. He hardly dared look at Uncle Aquila.

No matter. The old man had everything under control. "Is it customary for Britons to eat standing?" he asked suavely.

Light from the nearby oil lamp glinted in the bronze hair as the narrow head shook silently.

"Then sit," Aquila commanded. "I'm starving."

* * *

Even before the _cena _course was over, he was used to it. This was what meals had been like at home. Everyone together. He watched Marcus, eating the dish he had prepared, and smiling with pleasure.

"Esca made that," Stephanos told him.

"It's delicious," Marcus said.

Esca blushed while old Aquila took another portion of it.

"Those greens are stinging nettles," Stephanos remarked. "Easy on the tongue, but hard on the hands. The boy's been wounded in your service."

Esca hid his hands under the table.

"You did that for me?" Marcus smiled at him across the table.

For a second, the smaller man didn't know what to say. Then he found himself blurting out the truth. "I like to eat it, too!"

And at that, all four men laughed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: **_You must live for another if you wish to live for yourself. –_Lucius Annaeus Seneca

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

Esca set the plate of bread and fruit on the little table, along with a cup of water, then looked at his master, uncertainly. "If you don't care for this, I could bring you—"

"It's fine," Marcus told him indifferently. His gaze remained fixed on something out in the garden. He made no move to touch either cup or plate.

_Would he actually eat anything? _Esca wondered. "If you'd like, I could—"

"You can go."

The Roman did not say, _I have no use for you, _as he had that first day, but the Briton knew the dismissal was an order from which there was no appeal. He wished to help so much, but he didn't really know what help to give. And his master wished only for him to make himself scarce. Not knowing what else to do, Esca obeyed, pulling the door softly closed most of the way, but leaving it open just a bit, in case Marcus should change his mind after all, and call for him.

* * *

"How's your master?" Regina, the oyster-seller who had given him Aquila's message that first day, greeted him in the market.

"Mending." Esca pressed his lips together, then slid the top lip across the bottom, wondering if he should say any more.

"But?" she asked.

Esca shrugged. He'd grown up in the bustle of a hillfort. The silence of the villa depressed him. "But I wish they'd have some visitors. It's lonely."

"Well, the young one's been wounded." She thought about it. "I suppose Old Aquila does his socializing at the bathhouse, like they all do."

Esca eyed the old woman speculatively. "He often goes there of an afternoon, yes."

"Perhaps the young one should accompany him. Meet people. Make friends. He's not from around here, you know."

He hadn't known, really. Well, he knew he was a Roman, but not where he was from, exactly. He thought about asking, but he'd talked enough already. No sense revealing any more of his ignorance. "A long hot soak would be just the thing for his leg," he remarked instead.

* * *

Aquila himself was thinking along the same lines as the oyster-woman. "It's time you were out in the world, Marcus."

"Out in the world," his nephew muttered. "What world? I've been _honorably discharged _from the world."

"Then you must make yourself a new world," the old man stated brightly.

The forced cheerfulness made Marcus' teeth ache. He rubbed his bad leg, hoping the action would ease that pain. It didn't. "_This _has made my new world, uncle."

"Come to bathhouse with me. There are people you should meet. Part of that new world."

The younger man stared down at his leg. "With this?"

"With that. The heat will do it good."

"No."

"Mar-_cus_—" Aquila drew the syllables out and up in that way he had when his nephew was displeasing him.

"I said no."

* * *

Defeated, Aquila departed for the bathhouse alone. Esca checked to see if Marcus wanted anything.

He didn't.

No surprise there.

Well, he'd been purchased partially to lighten Stephanos' load, so maybe the Greek had something he wanted done.

To get the younger slave out of his hair, the older finally consented to allow the boy to clean old Aquila's study.

Scrolls filled square shelves along one wall. More were strewn across a table. Esca tried to concentrate on the work he was supposed to be doing, but the books drew him. Romans and their books. He wiped his hands on his tunic, picked up a scroll, and unrolled it.

He forgot about cleaning, forgot about the time passing.

"Can you read that?"

It was Aquila. Esca jumped, nearly dropping the scroll.

"I forget something, and decided to come home to fetch it." The graybeard grinned at the slave, a crocodile smile. "And what do I find in my study?"

"I was just—"

"Snooping?"

"Stephanos told me I should cl—"

"Oh, you were cleaning that scroll, were you?" Aquila cut him off.

Esca didn't know what to say.

"Why don't you read to me what's so interesting?"

The Briton looked again at the scroll. "Caretake this moment," he read. "Immerse yourself in its particulars. Respond to this person, this challenge, this deed."

Aquila took the scroll from him, and read, with emphasis, "'_Quit evasions_. Stop giving yourself needless trouble. It is time to really live; to fully inhabit the situation you happen to be in now.' Do you know whose words those are?"

Esca shook his head.

"They are the words of Epictetus. A slave," he eyed his nephew's slave challengingly. "Now get out of my study."

* * *

At _cena_, Esca brought in the big bowl of porridge, then seated himself silently, trying to assess how badly he'd disgraced himself with the older men. Stephanos had been none too pleased to hear that Aquila had caught him perusing one of the scrolls, and his ears were still ringing from the dressing down the old Greek had given him.

Aquila did not seem to be angry. In fact, he made no reference to the matter at all, talking instead of the men he'd met at the bathhouse, how relaxing the hot water had been, how invigorating the cold.

"It would do your leg a world of good," he advised his nephew.

Marcus didn't want to discuss this again. "I already told you—"

The old man interrupted with the surprising assertion, "It's not just me. Esca thinks so, too."

Esca looked up in alarm. Three pairs of eyes were trained on him, two of the pairs with disapproval. But Aquila was smiling, his crocodile smile. "Don't you, Esca?"

It was a test, somehow. He wondered what the correct answer was. He had no idea, so spoke the truth. "Yes, I do."

Marcus didn't look at Esca, only at his uncle. "And why exactly should I care what my slave thinks?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: ****_"_**_Though my work may be menial, though my contribution may be small, I can perform it with dignity and offer it with unselfishness. My talents may not be great, but I can use them to bless the lives of others... The goodness of the world in which we live is the accumulated goodness of many small and seemingly inconsequential acts." _― Gordon B. Hinckley

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

Warm water sluiced deliciously over his thigh and into the basin below. Marcus groaned, but it was a sound of pleasure rather than pain. The wet heat was what his body craved. Gentle hands laid a warm wet cloth over his now-healing flesh. Esca, squatting at his feet, sat back on his heels, and the blue-gray eyes flashed up at him inquiring, "Better?"

"Yes, that's good." Marcus smiled at his slave. "I wish—" then he shook his head. "Nevermind."

Esca would have liked to ask him what he wished, but knew better. "We could leave it open to the air," he suggested. "It won't start to bleed again now."

"No," the Roman insisted. "Cover it."

The Briton nodded, resigned, and wrapped a clean white bandage comfortingly around his master's leg. When he'd finished, he heard, as usual, "You can go."

Esca gathered the detritus of his work, the basin and dirty bandages, and departed without further words.

Marcus sighed. He was tired of being alone. And the warm water, even that little bit of warm water, truly had felt good. Maybe Uncle Aquila was right. Maybe he should accompany his father's brother to the bathhouse. But he couldn't.

He looked down at the clean, white bandage on his leg. Could he?

* * *

"What do you mean?" Aquila asked his nephew.

"I don't— I want— I don't want— " the young man broke off, frustrated.

The old man's brow wrinkled. "What don't you want?"

Marcus pursed his lips into a circle and blew out a forceful breath through the tiny opening he'd left between them. "I don't want anyone to see it."

"You'll be in the water."

"Not all the time."

Aquila shrugged.

"And what about the oiling, and the—"

"What about it? It will only be a slave helping y—"

"Only?"

"You let Esca help you."

"Esca is just… Esca."

"He's a slave, like any other slave."

"He's not—"

"He's not what?"

Marcus shook his head, unable to explain.

* * *

"What if I went with him?" Esca asked.

Aquila and the two body slaves had come together for a consultation on what was to be done with the young master.

"Do you know what that would cost?" Uncle Aquila asked testily.

"Through the front door?" Esca named the sum. It was accurate.

"How dare you?" Stephanos attempted to remonstrate with his fellow slave. "To suggest that the master should—"

"I don't," the Briton assured the old Greek. He turned to the old Roman. "It's a lot cheaper to come in through the back door. One bribe instead of three." He named a much lower price.

Uncle Aquila was interested. "That might be doable… but what would that entail on your end?"

The young man caught a corner of his mouth between his teeth. "Naturally, we'd have to pretend I was one of the slaves of the bathhouse. No favoritism. But I can make sure I'm there to attend to Marcus in each room."

"You'll have to attend to others as well, or it won't look right."

Esca shrugged. "So I scrape down a few extra Romans. It's nothing I haven't done before."

Aquila was on the point of laughter, until he saw his own body slave's outrage. "Stephanos," he reminded the old Greek, "we have to do what's best for Marcus." He cut his eyes across at the Brigante teasingly. "And if that means that Esca here has to lower himself to serving a few additional citizens in the process, who are we to stand in his way?"

* * *

"Are you sure you know what to do?"

"Yes, Gittopor," Esca reassured his friend for what seemed like the dozenth time.

"All right, go." He watched worriedly as the 'new' slave entered the _apodyterium _to help some customers undress.

* * *

"What if he isn't there?"

"He'll be there," Aquila promised. "He gave me his word."

"His word?" Marcus repeated. If Esca had given his word, then he would keep it, unless—"but what if—"

"'What if' is a game for scholars," Aquila reminded him. "If he isn't there, then I hope you'll let someone else help you, but _he will be there._"

He was there. _"Bene lave," _Esca greeted them in a muted tone.

Marcus and Aquila undressed with the Briton's assistance, then he accepted their clothes to be placed in one of the chests for safekeeping, what time the two Romans went through into the _tepidarium._

"See?" Aquila smiled at his nephew. "Easy-peasy."

Marcus was still nervous, but he looked back into the changing room, and somehow the sight of Esca earnestly assisting another pair of men to undress relaxed him. "It'll be fine, uncle," he agreed.

* * *

Marcus couldn't do much by way of exercise just yet, but true to his word, Esca rejoined them, and it was he who rubbed Marcus down with olive oil, massaging his sore leg gently…. In fact, anywhere the Briton touched him, he was soothed. Aquila suggested a turn at least around the _palaestra,_ so the two Romans went out to the exercise yard, leaving the Briton to work massage-magic on some other customers.

Marcus did some stretching with his uncle's help, then the two of them strolled in a leisurely fashion around the enclosure, greeting friends, and watching the games in progress, here a wrestling match, there a game of latrunculi, in one corner a conversation, in another a man with a pot-belly eating a sausage. To Marcus, the feeling of the oil soaking into his flesh was a good one.

They returned to find Esca with a strigil at the ready. The scraping made Marcus feel like a well-curried horse. A brief stop in the _tepidarium_ got them ready for a good soak in the _caldarium._

_Yes, this was what he had needed. _

"Good?" Aquila inquired jovially.

Marcus half-laughed. "Yes, I freely admit, you were right, uncle."

"I'm always right," Aquila said.

"Brigante pig!" Someone yelled from the other side of the pool. There was the sound of flesh striking flesh, then the clatter of a strigil skittering across the tiles.

There might be any number of Brigantes in the bathhouse, but Calleva Atrebatum was a long way from Isurium Brigantium. They couldn't not look.

It was Esca. The customer who was raging at him had given up Latin for Brythonic, so it was unclear just what his issue was, but it was clear the Aquila's slave was making no headway in soothing him. Marcus looked at his uncle. Should they interfere? Old Aquila slowly shook his head.

* * *

The Catuvellauni was beside himself. "First your b;tch of a queen betrays our king, and now I have to be handled by one of you Brigante filth by way of getting clean?"

"Sir," Esca began, "I assure you—" Pain stopped his voice. A slender hand had slid into his hair, closed into a fist around at least a third of it, and _yanked! _Tears filled his eyes. The slap in the face from the Catuvellauni was nothing in comparison.

"Has this little one offended you, Dominus?" Gittopor's voice almost purred. The fingers gripping his hair forced Esca's head down painfully. Only the fact that this was a friend he trusted implicitly kept the Brigante from fighting back. "I fear he isn't quite housebroken yet."

Out of the corner of his eye, Esca saw Marcus and Aquila looking at him, and much as he would have liked to be rescued, he prayed they'd do nothing. He also prayed he'd not be bald before this adventure was over. He saw the two Romans look away, and was simultaneously relieved and hurt.

"Rest assured, Dominus," Gittopor promised menacingly, "I will punish him severely punished for this offense. He won't forget his manners again any time soon." Esca glanced at his friend with unfeigned worry, before the punitive hand in his hair coerced his agonized departure from the room.

* * *

By the time uncle and nephew had finished in the _frigidarium_, Esca had rejoined them and was able to help them dress.

"Are you all right?" Marcus asked.

The slave swallowed. It took him a moment to answer, as if he needed to think about it before committing himself. "Fine."

"What… was that all about back there?"

"N-nothing. Just… tribal differences."

"Did he hurt you? Either of them?"

_Did being snatched bald count? _"No," Esca said. "Gittopor just said that to get me away from him."

They were dressed. "Will you be home soon?" Marcus asked.

Esca nodded, not meeting his eyes. "I just have to finish up here." He wasn't exactly happy about it himself. He sincerely hoped he wouldn't need to do this again. Ever. He'd forgotten what the bathhouse could be like. "Part of our deal."

"I'll see you at home then."

Esca nodded, then moved off to help some other customers dress, as he must.

* * *

"How did you enjoy it?" Aquila asked, as the two men walked home.

"The water felt good," Marcus admitted reluctantly. The vision of the angry bather and the menacing slavemaster man-handling Esca while he did nothing rose in his memory and soured the experience a bit. More than a bit, truth to tell. "I didn't enjoy it as much as I thought I would," he said.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: **_A single rose can be my garden... a single friend, my world._ – Leo Buscaglia

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

Marcus lay awake in the grey light of false dawn. He did not know what had woken him, or even if he truly was awake, but the image that filled his mind and kept him from settling back to sleep was the incredible vulnerability of narrow, muddy, bare feet, as Esca had struggled to rise from the sands of the arena, only to be struck down again and yet again by the giant in the Janus mask.

Dreamlike, the scene shifted to the bathhouse, the bronze head cruelly bent by the hand gripping its hair. _I will punish him severely for this offense. _

Marcus shuddered. Bare soles, covered in mud, as their owner crawled; hurt, but struggling manfully to get back onto his feet.

He should have done something.

He had done something. He had saved Esca from the crowd, from the Janus mask.

But not from his enemies in the bathhouse.

Marcus sat up, eyes straining in the gloom, but there was no faithful servant lying near the door. _Has he finally taken my advice and run? _ Even as the thought formed, Marcus didn't believe it. He levered himself off the bed, wincing as his bad leg took his weight. Where was his tunic? He'd managed without a body servant for most of his life. He could shift for himself this morning as well.

* * *

The washing pool was at the bottom of the garden, handy to the wide stream that bisected the town. Esca, bare-chested in the chill pre-dawn, but submerged from the waist down, bend to rinse the last of the suds from the worn bracchae, then emerged from the pool, strong, slender hands still wringing out the water before draping the short trousers over a nearby bush to dry.

He stood a moment to breathe deeply and enjoy the quiet, before gooseflesh made him step back down the wooden steps into the sunken tub. He'd poured boiling water into it earlier, like a decadent Roman, and it was still appreciably warmer than the waters of the stream. He took up the sky-blue tunic next and rubbed soap into the thin wool vigorously, inhaling gratefully the clean scent so reminiscent of home.

Stephanos couldn't understand why he refused to send his clothes to the fullers' to be cleaned. The Greek couldn't comprehend that Esca loved this chore, yearned for these quiet mornings. The hard white bar foamed luxuriously, and he laid the tunic aside while he rubbed the suds along his arms, across his chest and over his belly. He closed his eyes and moved his head down, shaking it from side to side to relieve tense muscles, and loosed a heartfelt sigh.

He never wanted to enter another bathhouse ever again.

_Goddess, please help Marcus to get over his shyness about his wound. _

He knew the Romans found it as relaxing as he found this, but… he just _couldn't. _

He heard the sound of someone moving in the garden and groaned. Was it time to get to work already? "Θα είμαι εκεί σε μια στιγμή , Στέφανος," _[I'll be there in a while, Stephanos,] _he called out wearily. "Απλά αφήστε με να τελειώσω το πλύσιμο αυτό το χιτώνα." _[Just let me finish washing this tunic.]_

It wasn't Aquila's body slave who asked, "You speak Greek?"

The shock of it was like being dumped bodily into the cold water of the stream. "Marcus?!" Esca opened his eyes and turned towards the voice. The young Roman was seated on the low garden bench next to the pool watching him. He did not look angry.

Esca hoped.

The two young men stared at each other for long seconds before Esca remembered his master had asked him a question. "Not according to Stephanos," he answered.

Marcus frowned, but said nothing.

Esca didn't need the Roman's reproach to know he'd been impertinent. He bowed his head.

It was terrible to belong to someone you wanted to please. It was much better to hate your owner. Then you could be glad when you made him angry.

He stared down at the half-washed tunic. He'd left Marcus to drag himself out of bed on his injured leg in order to pursue his own pleasure. He was useless. And thoughtless.

His joy in the morning was gone. Sorrow flooded into its place. The soft breeze chilled him.

Dawn had arrived. Marcus stared down at the reddish highlights the crimson light struck from the bent bronze head. Without thinking, he reached out a hand to touch it, then rested his palm gently on the exposed back of the slender neck. A moment only, then the hand was withdrawn, but it had done its job.

Inexplicably soothed, Esca looked up at his master. "Yes, I have a little Greek."

The Roman accepted this more polite answer, then moved on to another subject. "Is that the 'soap' I've heard about? That your people use to clean clothes?"

The Brigante nodded.

"Can I see it?"

Esca handed him the hard white bar.

Marcus was surprised by the slippery texture and nearly dropped it. He sniffed it curiously. It smelled like Esca.

"Marcus, can I…?"

The Roman looked at him inquiringly, then chuckled. "Finish your washing? Go ahead." He handed back the soap.

The slave rubbed it again against the tunic, then set it down so he could rinse the garment, wring it out, and rinse it again.

"You use the soap on yourself as well?"

Esca nodded.

"It didn't take off the paint on your arm, I see."

Esca's smile transformed him: made him look younger, sweeter, and gentler than any slave purchased in the arena had any right to be. "Nothing can remove the god's marks."

"What do they mean?"

Esca looked at the marks on his arm. "They're archers' markings. Sacred to Llew of the Steady Hands." He mimed fitting arrow to string, loosing it.

"You're an archer?" the former centurion asked.

Esca nodded.

"Well, then. We'll have to get you a bow."


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: **_This is slavery, not to speak one's thought._ –Euripides

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

Had any of Esca's former owners proposed to provide him with a weapon, he would have assumed it was a joke. Or a trick. Or a test.

It was a testament to the hopefulness of the human spirit that a mere few weeks of kindness had overcome more than three years of bitter experience.

Esca believed. And was touched.

Of course, he'd been wrong before.

* * *

That same morning, after a light repast of bread and fruit, Marcus told his slave, "We'll go to the forum, and see what we can find for you in the shops."

Not knowing what to say, Esca nodded. His hair was still wet from the bathing pool when they left the villa.

* * *

The Roman did not ask his slave if he knew of good bowyer in town, merely lead him into the commercial district, to the stall of an armorer who obligingly laid out half a dozen bows on the counter.

Esca looked them over carefully without touching. Finally, he shook his head and gave a tiny shrug. Was a slave even allowed to own a weapon?

"Oh, no," Marcus chuckled. "You don't get off that easily. Try them out."

Esca eyed the stall's proprietor, then stepped closer to the bows.

"Is he going to touch them?" the man asked.

Marcus nodded. "He's the expert," he explained mildly.

The armorer pulled out a cloth from under the counter and handed it to Esca. "Wipe your hands, slave, before you touch my wares."

It was the kind of indignity the unfree were exposed to every day. Every hour. The Briton accepted the cloth in silence and without apparent offense. Marcus watched him wipe his already clean hands, then display them for inspection. Receiving a grudging nod of approval from the vendor, he quickly picked up the weapon furthest to the left, strung it, drew the string to his ear, released it, then just as quickly unstrung the bow, set it down and moved on to the next to repeat the process.

Both Marcus and the vendor watched attentively, trying to guess which the bondsman would pronounce the best. The Briton's expression was unreadable, even to his master. Clearly, his task absorbed him, but whether the ornate, the gilded or the plain pleased him or dismayed him, it was impossible to tell.

When he had tried them all, the slave stepped back, hands clasped in front of him, eyes properly cast down.

"Well?" Marcus asked.

The slave's lilting response was only barely audible. "It's up to you." He knew they couldn't negotiate for the weapon now; they'd neglected to set up a signal for which bow was the best. If he revealed to the proprietor that he thought they should purchase the plain yew, it would up the weapon's price considerably. They should leave and come back a little later to bargain.

"You must have some idea which you think is best," his master prompted. "Or should we try somewhere else?"

A tricky question. The proprietor was watching them with narrowed eyes. Esca didn't want to antagonize the man; he wanted to be able to return and negotiate a good price for the yew. "They're all fine weapons."

Marcus, not being a mind reader, was irritated. Try to be nice to some people. He sighed and picked up the largest and sturdiest looking of the bows himself. "Fine," he snapped. "I'll decide. Though I don't know what I brought you for then."

The proprietor didn't either. He began to extol the virtues of the weapon Marcus was handling.

Esca frowned. He didn't like the pull of that bow, and the price the vendor was quoting was much too high. He would have liked to urge Marcus away from the stall, but to do so would offend the proprietor, and he _wanted _the yew. Plus, the next time he came to the market he'd likely be alone. Vulnerable. A slave can't afford to make enemies. Against his better judgement, his right hand crept up to tap the counter in front of the yew. "This one's draw weight is better for me," he admitted, trying hard to get the right mix of deference and indifference into his voice.

"Too late," Marcus informed him. "I like this one." Internally, he was happy that Esca had revealed his choice, but this was a negotiation, so he directed his smile at the vendor, rather than at his bondsman.

"How right you are, dominus," the vendor agreed. "That yew is much too plain for a commander of men such as yourself. The one you've chosen is much better. Now, the price I'm asking for it is cheap…"

It wasn't, but even if it had been, Esca didn't want it. Was Marcus really going to buy it… for himself? Maybe he intended to buy one for each of them.

Maybe he had changed his mind about buying one for Esca.

Disappointment shot through him at the thought. He hadn't realized how much he'd been looking forward to it, even though the idea had never entered his head until that morning when Marcus put it there. He stared at the young Roman, feeling betrayed. Marcus had set down the bow with the irritating pull, and was considering another, so didn't see his bondsman's face.

But the vendor did. And laughed. "He thought it was_ for_ _him!_" the man crowed in cruel delight.

Esca fought to control his features. He didn't care what the vendor thought. Fortunately, Marcus wasn't even looking at him, having picked up a beautifully painted and highly carved, but functionally useless bow that had apparently been made by someone who intended it to be used as a votive offering. It was not even made of an appropriate wood for archery. "His last owner spoiled him terribly," Esca's current owner agreed casually. "Gets all sorts of notions. How much for this one?"

_It would serve him right if he did waste coin on that one! _Stupid idiot! He was a stupid idiot to have believed something said by someone who _owned him! _Esca's face hardened into stone.

The vendor, watching him, chuckled. "You know, dominus, I think you should buy the yew for him. Makes a nice flexible switch."

Esca clenched strong teech. He'd had such a beating, more than once, and to think of it was to feel again the sting of the bow's flexible limbs on his own limbs, on his back—

And Marcus was laughing.

Because it was funny.

He should have lied about the marks on his arm.

* * *

Just as Esca had, Marcus tried each bow in turn.

Except the yew. That one he never touched. Why would he?

It was only the one he knew Esca wanted.

Why would a man arm his enemy? His slave?

Why would he save his life?

Esca had hated Beppo, but at least the master of the gladiators had never pretended to be kind.

Marcus set down the last bow. "I don't know," he sighed. He looked over at his slave as if for guidance, and appeared startled by the angry look that greeted him. He cocked his head, and turned back to the vendor.

"You know what? Let me have that little yew bow, after all."

One corner of the vendor's mouth curled up in disdain. It was the plainest and cheapest of the bows on offer. "You haven't even tried it, dominus."

"I don't need to," the Roman assured him. "I've no intention of shooting it. I'm going to use it to teach my slave here some manners."


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: **_"I hate everything you stand for, everything you are." –_Esca_, _The Eagle_ (2011)_

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

The vendor handed the wrapped bow over the counter to Marcus. "What about arrows, dominus?"

Marcus regarded him blandly. "What do I need arrows for?"

"What, indeed?" The vendor was still chuckling as the two young men walked away.

When they were out of sight of the stall, Marcus shoved the bundle into Esca's arms. "Here, take it."

* * *

_He didn't mean it. _

From three paces behind, Esca watched Marcus' determined limping towards home. What would happen when they got there? _Did he really intend to—_

Since he'd been at the Villa Aquilae, no one had so much as lifted a finger to him, but with every master he'd ever had, there had eventually been that first time. Usually a lot sooner than this.

He didn't want it to be true. He wanted Marcus to be different. Had thought he _was _different.

_What do I need arrows for? _

_What, indeed?_ Esca took a deep breath, then slowly let it out in an attempt to control the knot of anger growing in his belly.

_Stupid, stupid idiot. When will you learn? _

It wasn't the pain he minded. Pain was an old companion.

It was that he'd been so _happy _this morning when Marcus had talked of finding him a bow.

* * *

Halfway to the villa, the ache in his thigh became too insistent for Marcus to ignore any longer. He paused and turned back to Esca, walking properly three paces to his rear. "Is there someone a little private where we could stop for a short time?" _Maybe they could rewrap the bandage—_

The Briton's blue-gray eyes flashed him a strange look, and the lilting voice was gruff in answer, "There's a shrine to Poena just ahead on the left. It's usually deserted."

Despite his discomfort, Marcus chuckled. "I should think it would be. Excellent choice. We'll stop there."

"Of course," Esca agreed. _We have an offering to make to her…_

* * *

The little shrine's porch boasted a stone bench adjacent to the altar for the convenience of Poena's votaries, in the unlikely event that any such should exist.

Marcus seated himself with a groan, trying to massage the knotted muscles around his wound without causing himself additional pain. A part of his mind registered the curious fact that Esca had laid the bundle containing the bow next to him, but he was too involved in his own concerns to even notice what his slave was up to. He tried to pull the bandage into a better position, but couldn't. Perhaps it could be rewrapped. "Esca—" he began, then blinked.

Esca stood a short distance away. He'd removed his tunic and laid it on the altar. The marks on his arm stood out boldly, inky black and deep blue. Every muscle and sinew in the lithe body was tensed. Waiting.

He looked as he'd looked standing in the arena with the gladiator's sword at his throat.

Marcus felt a pain shoot through his head to join the one in his thigh. _What is _wrong_ with him?_

The two young men stared at each other for a long moment, one angry, one baffled and irritated.

Finally, Marcus said, "What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you to _teach me some manners_."

Marcus shook his head, his fingers busily unwrapping and rewrapping his bandage, since his bondsman was choosing to be useless at the moment. When he had finished, he said, "Put your tunic on."

"I'd prefer you do it here," his slave said flatly.

Marcus stared. "I don't care what you'd _prefer." _He waited, then when he saw obedience was not forthcoming, he repeated, "I _order_ you to put your tuni_c_ back on. Now."

For a moment, the slave stood still, looking frustrated, then turned, retrieved his tunic, and slipped it over his head.

As Marcus passed his slave to leave the shrine, he again shoved the wrapped bow into the Briton's hands. "Is there a decent fletcher near here?"

To stunned to speak, Esca nodded.

* * *

The fletcher's stall was much less grand than the armorer's had been.

And they knew Esca there, because he'd been drawn to admire their wares more than once, though he'd not had the wherewithal nor any reason to buy.

The proprietress was an old woman. She looked at the toga'd Roman curiously. "Dominus," she greeted him in a pleasant tone, naturally addressing the citizen as the likely buyer, rather than the slave.

Marcus jerked his head towards Esca. "He's the customer, not me."

She turned to Esca and switched to Brythonic. "Is this your master?"

Esca nodded.

"So he's well now?"

"Yes, he's much improved."

Her wrinkled forehead creased even further. "Is something wrong?"

He looked worriedly at Marcus. "I thought something I shouldn't have thought, and said something I shouldn't have said."

The proprietress's grandson laid a bundle of arrows on the counter, and looked at the Roman in concern. As Esca examined each arrow, looking down the length of the shaft, and spinning it in slender fingers, the boy leaned towards him to whisper, still in Brythonic, "Will he punish you?"

The Briton's hands stilled for a moment, as he shot a look over at his master.

Marcus stared back. He wondered what they were saying to each other, then frowned at a twinge of pain in his leg.

Esca laid down the arrow and picked up the next. "I don't know," he told the boy.

* * *

When they got back to the villa, Esca gestured hesitantly with the two wrapped bundles, and asked, "What should I do with these?"

"Put them in the chest with your father's dagger," Marcus growled.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note: **_Don't tempt worse. _

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

He had ruined everything.

Esca raised the lid of the carved chest which contained Marcus' most treasured possessions and the first thing he saw was Father's dagger. Cunoval would not have approved of his behavior today.

A longing for home that was like sickness shook him. He wanted to pick up the dagger, to feel the smooth bone in his hand. He wanted to unwrap the bundles, to string the lovely little yew bow, to fit the fine arrows to the string, to feel the strength of Llew in his arm, to hunt again.

But what he wanted didn't matter.

So instead, he lay the wrapped bundles in the chest next to the dagger as Marcus had bid, then very gently lowered the lid.

* * *

Stephanos entered the culina to find his fellow slave holding the mortarium in his lap, the slender fingers curved around the pestle stilled, their owner lost in thought.

"Are you grinding that or staring at it?"

The boy shuddered, and the pestle began moving again, mashing the bowl's contents into paste.

"What's wrong, my little one?"

The pestle slipped and struck ear-splittingly against the grit embedded in the sides of the bowl. "Nothing," the boy lied.

* * *

Except it clearly wasn't nothing.

The pleasant equality that normally prevailed during _cena _was absent this evening. The two older men conversed as normal, but the two younger were silent. Marcus at least looked at the older men when they spoke. Esca kept his eyes on his plate.

The two old men exchanged a glance. Which of them should broach the subject?

"I understand you ventured into the forum today, you and Esca," Aquila probed casually.

Esca's eyes shot quickly to his master, then down. Marcus dipped his bread, and grunted assent before biting off a piece.

"He's quite the little negotiator, our Esca," the old Greek began approvingly. He turned to Marcus, "Why he even…" The look in the green eyes stilled the old slave's garrulous tongue.

"He what?" Marcus breathed, his tone not quite menacing.

"Don't blame him," the Briton's lilting voice, though quiet, seemed to fill the room, and yet the man never raised his eyes from his plate. "It's not his fault."

"I suppose you think it's_ mine!_" Marcus snapped.

Esca shook his head in response, but didn't verbalize an answer.

"Leave the table." The soft order came from Aquila, but there was no doubt to whom he spoke. Esca rose immediately and left the room.

Aquila turned to his own slave. "Go with him, Stephanos. Make sure he comes back to help clear, and to serve secunda mensa. Understand?"

The Greek nodded. "Perfectly," he confirmed. He picked up Esca's plate and rose. "I'll send him back for mine, shall I?"

"Good idea," Aquila agreed. He wanted the proper master-slave roles restored as quickly as possible.

After the older slave left, uncle and nephew stared at each other across the table.

"Why did you do that?" Marcus asked. "He's my slave."

"It's my table. I want no contention at it."

Marcus frowned. "Perhaps you should have sent me from the table then."

"You're my nephew. He's a slave."

"As simple as that, is it?"

The question was probably rhetorical, but Aquila answered it anyway. "In this world, it is."

* * *

Esca steeled himself as he set the clay drinking vessel on the little table next to Marcus' breakfast fruit, took a deep, fortifying breath, then launched himself into what he knew had to be said. "Marcus, about yesterday, I just wanted to—"

"I don't care what you want."

"But—"

"Did you hear me?"

"I heard you, but please let me—"

"You can go."

"Marc—"

"Go!"

* * *

Stephanos must have succeeded in worming at least part of the story out of his fellow slave, because Aquila could hear the Greek scolding the Britling all morning. Something about the boy's ingratitude. And Esca was not defending himself. Aquila wondered what he was ungrateful for.

He'd get Stephanos to tell him later, if Marcus wouldn't cough up.

* * *

As strange as it had seemed to sit at table with the Romans, it now seemed even stranger merely to serve them at _cena, _just as if they were normal slaves in a huge household, so strange that after several nights of it, Esca dared to approach Aquila about the matter.

"I can serve the three of you," he told the old Roman. "There's no need to punish Stephanos for something I did."

Aquila gave the merest chuff of laughter. "Am I punishing you, Stephanos?"

Esca whirled to find the old body slave standing behind him.

"It's not a punishment, lad," the Greek agreed.

"But—"

"Have faith, and my master will see to it that all is well."

* * *

A soft _shush-shush _from the long interior hall distracted Aquila from his scroll. "Stephanos?" he called softly.

The noise stopped, but there was no answer. Curious, the old man rose and walked to the door. Esca knelt on the tessellated floor, scrub brush in hand.

"Ah," the Roman said. "I thought you might be Stephanos."

"Shall I fetch him for you?" the lilting voice sounded forlorn.

"It isn't necessary." Aquila regarded his nephew's slave a moment. "Things haven't improved between you?"

The bronze head gave a negative shake.

Aquila thought a moment. "What did Marcus buy when the two of you went to the forum that day?"

Esca wondered if it was supposed to be a secret. Marcus hadn't said not to tell. "He bought a bow and arrows."

"Did he? I wasn't aware that he was an archer. Anything else?"

Esca swallowed. "A quiver."

Aquila stared at the marks on the slave's right arm, only partially hidden by the short sleeve of his tunic. "And does he plan to use these items himself?"

"I don't know what he plans."

* * *

_He knew he shouldn't be doing this. It was wrong. It was so wrong. _He wasn't breaking his word. He just needed some help. He was only borrowing it. He'd put it back as soon as he was done.

He lifted the lid of the chest and removed the dagger. It was the first time he'd touched it without permission since the day he'd thrown it down at Marcus' feet.

* * *

Esca knelt in the grass at edge of the stream where it touched the bottom of the garden. "Exalted One," he whispered hoarsely, "accept my sacrifice and help me to atone." He winced as the blade bit into his palm, then watched as the bright blood welled up and dripped into the stream. "Show me the way, for I am lost…"

_Father, help me to honor my pledge. _He held the dagger under the water, to let the current clean it. He couldn't release it into the water for the Goddess; it was still pledged to the Roman. He took it out of the water and wiped it on the grass. He held the hand he'd cut in the water, letting the chill, living waters of the stream numb the sting, and cleanse and close the tiny wound.

_Please let him forgive me. _He sat back on the bank, wrapped his arms around his drawn up knees and lowered head onto his arms. He was no longer certain what it was he needed to be forgiven for…

He'd been so angry. At what Marcus had said to the armorer. At himself for being offended. At the Roman's refusal to allow him to apologize. At this wall they'd built between them.

He wished he were still able to cry. It would be such a relief. But his eyes remained stubbornly dry.

_He didn't want to be friends with the Roman. Didn't want his bow. Didn't care if Marcus broke it across his back, just… let it end. Please let it end. He didn't want to fight anymore. _There was no one else in the world to whom he was tied, no bond of obligation but this slender thread holding him to this man who had save his life but who "meant nothing by it."

He was so lonely. _Please, Goddess. I don't care anymore, I swear it. He can speak of me any way he wishes to anyone we meet, but please—_

"Are you taking back your word?"

Marcus.

Esca opened his eyes to confirm that it was his master who stood over him, angrily touching the handle of Cunoval's dagger as it lay in the grass with the toe of his sandal.

_Oh, no. _

Esca opened his mouth, then closed it again. What could he say? His arms squeezed his drawn up knees convulsively. He felt his breath coming heavily as he waited for the condemnation he certainly deserved.

Marcus bent down and retrieved the dagger. He looked at it curiously. Esca watched him handle the precious relic with a kind of fascinated dread. "You said this knife was your bond."

Esca nodded.

"You've taken it from the chest. Does that mean you've taken back your word as well?"

"No," Esca whispered.

Marcus leaned down towards him, the knife extended handle first. "You'd better put it back then, hadn't you?"

Esca reached out to take it. For a moment, Marcus didn't let go, and the two young men were bound together by that link of bone and iron. "Never take it again without my permission," Marcus told his slave, the warning clear in his tone. In the next instant, he had loosed his hold, and Esca was hurrying back into the house to restore it to its place in the chest.

* * *

As he closed the lid once again over the dagger, he knew he had only made it worse. Anything he did to try to make it better… just made it worse.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: **_"The time for trusting is when there's a doubt in your mind." _–Brian Hawke_, _Against All Flags_ (1952)_

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

The eggs were dressed with ground pine nuts, chopped celery, and honey wine. Delectable. Both sweet and savory.

"This is really good," Marcus complimented his uncle's body slave.

The old Greek gave a slight and very gentle smile. "It wasn't I who made it." He looked significantly at Esca, just coming in to clear before the main course.

Aquila noted that his nephew did not repeat his compliment to his own slave. And when Marcus attempted to hand the Briton a dish to remove from the table, the younger man flinched. The old Roman frowned. Things could not continue this way. He would not have it.

* * *

"Why don't you just beat him already, so we can all relax?" Uncle Aquila asked blandly.

Marcus nearly choked on his watered wine. "What?!"

"Don't pretend you don't want to."

"Ridiculous. Of _course_, I don't want to," Marcus swallowed a mouthful of his wine and set the cup down with a thunk. "Though I admit, I don't know what's wrong with him lately."

"Don't you?" The old man's look was knowing, his tone surprised.

Marcus' dark brows swept down. "No."

**"**_You _are."

"I'm what?"

"What's wrong with him."

Marcus blinked. "_I'm _what's wrong with him?"

"Of course."

"How do you figure?"

The old Roman smiled his crocodile smile. "When did it _start_?"

Marcus eyed his uncle askance. "I'm not sure," he said.

Aquila chuckled. "You are the most dreadful liar."

Marcus looked down at the table. "It started the day we went to the forum."

Aquila nodded. "Where you purchased a bow and arrows."

"Did he tell you that?"

"Yes."

"So what?"

"Were you planning to give them to him?"

"Why would I?"

"Because he's an archer."

"Did he tell you that?"

"The _marks on his arm_ told me that!"

Marcus looked away for a moment, shrugged and looked back at Uncle Aquila. "So I bought him a bow, why is that a problem?"

"Have you given it to him?"

Marcus' eyes slid away from his uncle's. "No."

"Are you going to?"

"I don't know."

"Why don't you know?"

"Because…" the normally smooth brow furrowed. "I don't know if I should."

"And _that's_ what's wrong with him."

Anger bubbled up through the younger man's discomfort. "Well, if he wanted me to give it to him, he shouldn't have—" he stopped abruptly.

"What shouldn't he have done?"

"Nothing."

Aquila waved his hands in a warding gesture. "It's your business, of course. He's your slave, so if you want to arm him, that's your business. If you dislike his behavior and want to beat him, that's your business, too, but I tell this, Nephew: I like a quiet household, and I like things pleasant at the evening meal. So whatever this is between the two of you, I want it settled, one way or the other."

"There's nothing to settle."

Aquila laughed. "That's a lie."

Marcus sighed worriedly and shook his head. "I don't know how—"

"Fine. Since he displeases you so much, we'll just sell hi—"

"No!"

At his uncle's inquiring look, Marcus elaborated. "It's a misunderstanding, that's all. There's no reason to sell him. He's done nothing wrong…. Nothing wrong enough to sell him for, at any rate."

"Then you have to talk to him."

Marcus was silent.

"Do you want me to talk to him?" Aquila asked, relenting.

Marcus shook his head. "He's my slave. I'll talk to him."

* * *

That night as Esca helped him undress, Marcus said they would take the bow out in the morning.

Esca nodded, but didn't dare say anything. It was going to happen. They would take the bow out. The_ bow. _Not the bow _and arrows_.

At least he wouldn't do it at the house.

The Briton wished it over. Maybe, once it was done, Marcus could forgive him.

* * *

_It didn't hurt as much as he'd thought it might. He certainly winced at each blow, but felt no need to cry out. The bow made a whistling noise through the air before smacking against his shoulders, so he had ample warning to prepare for each impact. It really wasn't even that painful. It was kind of Marcus to go so easy on him. Really, the worst of it was just how ashamed he–_

"Esca?" It was not the voice of an angry disciplinarian, but of a lonely child. "Are you awake?"

Esca opened his eyes to darkness. The dream evaporated around him. Marcus wasn't punishing him. "Yes, I'm awake. Would you like something?"

"Some water would be nice… perhaps a little wine in it. Use my glass cup."

Esca nodded, though the gesture probably wasn't visible. "I'll get it," he said.

"Thank you."

* * *

Esca woke in a more cheerful frame of mind, based on the simple ordinariness of their interaction during the night, but any slim hope he'd had that Marcus might already have forgiven him was extinguished as soon as he opened the chest. Cunoval's dagger was gone. He was positive he'd put it back. He moved the other items in the chest, but it hadn't fallen to the bottom. It had been removed.

The narrow shoulders hunched regretfully. Just the bow then. Sometimes it wasn't so wonderful for dreams to come true.

* * *

Marcus frowned at the single bundle his slave carried. "What do you think you're gonna do with that?"

His irritation alarmed his already worried bondsman even further. "You said to bring—"

"Bring _the arrows _as well, you fool."

Esca exhaled heavily, nodded, and went back for the second bundle.

* * *

Esca couldn't relax. No matter how many times he told himself that Marcus wasn't angry, no matter how many side glances he snuck at the Roman, no matter that it was the quiver across his back instead of the sweetly flexible and responsive bow, he couldn't shake his unease.

He was being tested.

"There, do you see it? Where the branch forks." Esca followed Marcus' pointing finger and nodded, then loosed his arrow at the current target. In vain.

The corner of Marcus' mouth tucked up. "At least you hit the trunk this time." The Roman sighed. "Go get your arrow."

Esca obeyed. The fresh scent of the spring woods beguiled him. He'd had too few chances to get out. The musky scent of the earth, where a ground dwelling animal's passage had turned it up, the intoxicating fragrance of the sun-warmed greenery, the lingering perfume of blossoms dying down in preparation to bringing forth fruit. A brisk breeze brought the gurgling of the nearby stream to his ears, along with a blessed coolness, for the morning was unseasonably warm.

Reaching the tree, he grasped the arrow where it stuck in the trunk, and a brilliant green beetle the exact shade of a newly unfurled leaf landed on his hand. "I've nothing for you," he told the insect gently. "Fly away now." He waved it off, then yanked out the arrow and returned to his waiting master.

"You're not very good," the former centurion remarked.

Esca truly hadn't been shooting well this morning, but he felt all his muscles tensing at the criticism anyway. "I've not held a bow for three years and more," he reminded his master truculently.

"That's your excuse, is it?"

Esca was silent. _Don't fight with him. It's not an excuse, it's just—_

"You don't like my saying that, do you?"

Esca gave him a hangdog look. Another test. He would keep impertinence from his tongue if he had to bite it off. But he couldn't control his thoughts. _No, I don't. I don't like it one bit. No matter how poorly I'm shooting. It's not a fair test of my abilities to ask me to—_

"Just as you disliked my telling the armorer you were spoiled."

_No, he hadn't liked that either. Not at all. _

"Esca, it was just a negotiating tactic."

"That's your excuse, is it?" the slave quoted, angrily.

"Oh, you _are _spoiled. I suppose if our positions had been reversed you wouldn't have said whatever suited your purposes about me?"

"Not like that!" Humiliation and hurt feelings were apparent under the angry tone.

"Mmm-hmm." The Roman's responding murmur was skeptical, then with a quick movement of his hand, a whirr of sound, and a flash of metal in the dappled sunshine something thunked into the ground near the stream bank.

Father's dagger.

Esca sought an explanation in the green of Marcus' eyes.

"Go," his master said. "You have a weapon now and your father's knife. Be off, if that's what you want."

Puzzled blue-gray eyes studied the dagger sticking out of the dirt, then looked back at Marcus in disbelief. "You're giving me my freedom?" This was _not _what he had expected. He knelt and pulled the knife from the soil, glad to feel the bone handle once again in his palm.

"No, I'm not giving you your freedom!" Marcus exclaimed. "You'll be a runaway, but I give you my word no one will come after you, and unlike yours, my word is good."

Esca sat back on his heels in the grass, staring up at the Roman in dismay.

Surprisingly, Marcus sank down next to his slave, his weight resting on his good knee, bad leg extended awkwardly, and reached to curve his broad hand around the back of Esca's head, forcing the smaller man to maintain eye contact. "I know you think I betrayed you by the things I said at the armorer's stall, and that you're living in the moment to moment expectation that I'll betray you again, but I **did not** and **will not **betray you." Just as abruptly, he released his grip, but the Briton didn't look away. "I just don't see how you can serve me," Marcus continued softly, "when you don't trust me. So you decide: will you stay, or will you abandon me here?"

For a timeless moment, the two young men stared into each other's eyes. They were mere inches apart. Esca could have killed Marcus easily in this position, but his grip was slack on the dagger lying uselessly in his lap. The lilt of the Briton's voice held the soft caress of a lover as he gave his answer: "I hate you." Slowly, he reversed the dagger so that he offered it back to his master handle first.

"I know." The bone handle fitted smoothly into Marcus' palm as though the knife had been made for him. The curve of the Roman's lips was as gentle as the hand accepting the return of the dagger. "I know you hate me. Even to be grateful would be so cliché. Is that your decision then? To abandon me?"

Suddenly, Esca leaned forward and wrapped both his hands around Marcus' hand on the dagger. "No, never!" The slender fingers tightened like bands of iron. Blue-gray eyes stared intently into green. "I swear it. On my honor, I swear, I will **never **abandon you."

Gazing into the bondsman's eyes, Marcus had time to reflect that an oath of loyalty usually featured the vassal's hands clasped in both of his lord's. He placed his free left hand over Esca's, and held it there until Esca released him and sat back on his heels.

"I am grateful," the Briton said simply, and the truth of it was there in the blue-gray eyes, serene as they had not been for days.

Discomfited by his directness, Marcus looked away in the direction of the water, and turned the subject. "There are trout in the stream," he remarked. "We should have brought some hooks."

"Hooks?" Esca asked, puzzled.

"To fish with."

"Do you want a fish?" the slave asked.

Marcus laughed. "And what if I did? Are you going to run back to the house for hooks?"

"No, I'm going to do something more useful." Esca shifted to free his legs, and started to remove his sandals.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting you a fish." He rose and stepped barefoot into the stream.

"Have you lost your mind? That water must be freezing!"

The Briton's lips curved in amusement, but he wasn't looking at Marcus, he was looking into the water, bending almost double in his efforts to keep the swiftly moving fish in sight. When he reached a flat outcropping of rock along the bank, he squatted down, only barely keeping the edge of his tunic out of the water. His slender arms reached under the rock, searching patiently by feel.

Marcus watched in fascination from the bank. Esca smiled at him, able to look up now, since he couldn't see through the rock in any case. His arms moved mysteriously under the water. Finally, he stood. In his hands he gripped a gleaming brown trout, its speckled body wriggling against the slender fingers securely holding its neck and tail. "Your wish is my command, master," he announced triumphantly.

"How did you do that? Oh, he's a beauty," Marcus commented admiringly. "Do you think you could get a couple more?"

One bronze eyebrow rose.

"Uncle and Stephanos both have powerful appetites when it comes to fish."

Esca cocked his head speculatively. "Perhaps… I don't suppose I could interest you in cleaning this one while I try for another?"

Marcus shook his head. "You catch 'em; you clean 'em."

"I'd be glad to teach you—"

"Are you crazy?" Marcus laughed. "I'm not the slave here. And that water's cold!"


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: **_"Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated." _–Aristotle

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

Life was good.

Esca had been so worried, and then so relieved, that Stephanos had laughed at him. "If being put firmly in your place is all you need to keep you happy, I think I can help you to achieve and maintain contentment for a long time to come." Esca smiled in response, but wisely said nothing, thereby escaping a scolding.

Stephanos reminded him of his grandmother, who had spent his childhood lovingly nagging him into good behavior.

He had certainly not expected a Roman household to be like this.

* * *

After some little hesitation, Esca had set up a target in the disused atrium that separated the private apartments of the house from the two shops that faced the street, less to keep his practicing out of his master's sight than to save himself from having to swim out into the stream to retrieve stray arrows.

At least that's what he told himself.

He didn't understand why Aquila and Marcus didn't use the front door, which led from the atrium through the fauces and vestibulum that separated the two shops to the street, but they didn't.

Uncle and nephew came and went came and went through the side door that opened off the wide central corridor, just as Stephanos did. Only Esca used the front door, because it was the quickest way to reach the baker's in the left front shop, where he went each morning to fetch the huge round loaf that formed part of the man's rent. Visitors seldom came to the house; the few who did seemed to know to use the side door.

So the atrium was deserted. To Esca, that made it perfect. He said nothing to Marcus, nothing to anybody. He didn't request time away from his labors, just set up the target, and snatched a few minutes or an hour whenever he could to practice whenever the Roman was busy with something else. Like tonight: he was busy sleeping.

It was dangerous to sneak away while his master slept, in light of Marcus' proven propensity to wake and ask for wine or water, or other assistance. Tonight, however, Esca expected his master to sleep much more deeply than was his wont, just as he'd drunk more deeply that evening at cena.

The dinner party, the first since Marcus' injury, had _not _been a success.

Esca didn't understand it. The men were friends of Uncle Aquila, retired soldiers, just as the old Roman was—just as Marcus was, come to that. One would have thought the men had a lot in common, but the… 'entertainment' only served to make the young Roman irritable and morose. Perhaps he hadn't liked this army.

Yet he always spoke of it to Esca as though he had. As though to be a Roman soldier were the greatest thing in the world. Esca had shuddered, thinking about it as he'd removed the bow and arrows from the chest he'd been assigned in which to store his own 'possessions,' which currently consisted of the said bow and arrows, three hand-me-down tunics, two worn and nearly threadbare pairs of bracchae, and his battered sandals.

Cunoval's dagger, of course, was still kept in Marcus' treasure chest, along with the military armilla he was so proud of, which celebrated his honor and faithfulness with the engraved words 'pia et fidelis.'

Honor and faithfulness.

_You're not very good. _

He needed to practice his archery.

He couldn't sleep anyway.

* * *

A nearly full moon shone overhead, casting sufficient light into the weirdly exterior interior of the atrium to allow him to place all his arrows in the target anyway, even if most of them had failed to hit the bullseye.

No wonder old Bairrfhionn had been so insistent that they practice all the time. He could feel his muscles beginning to remember what to do, his old skill beginning to return, but it was a slow business. It would take many days (and nights) of practicing to bring his performance up to a level that would please a Roman centurion.

And Esca was determined to please him.

He sent a quick prayer to the Morrigan for her aid, and one to Llew for his, then one to Nodens._ Who else should he try to propitiate? _

The moon's brightness had certainly helped him tonight.

"Esca."

The voice startled him, but not badly, because its tone was quiet, almost reverent.

The speaker was not Marcus, nor Stephanos, nor Aquila.

Nor any man.

Esca turned and rose from his seat on the atrium's sole stone bench in a single fluid movement.

The woman was tall, probably taller than he, though not so tall as Marcus. She wore a white shift that fell smoothly to her ankles, exposing her bare feet. Her long blonde hair fell in crimped waves down her back, over her bare arms.

She was as pale in the silver moonlight as spirits were said to be, but this was no ghost.

It was the weaver, Linnea, who had the right front shop. He'd been sent there to pick up a tunic for Marcus one day, and as soon as he'd seen how she'd tamed the cloud of wool under her arm, the fine thread streaming from her fist obediently to her drop spindle, just as it had always done for his mother, he'd been lost.

Her lovely face was raised now to the brightness in the sky, and she smiled at Esca like a dream lover. Something expanded in his chest, taking up all the room he normally used for breathing. _Please don't let me wake up. Not yet. _

"That's her name, you know," Linnea told him. "Esca. Her secret name. Not 'brightness' as people call her, nor the 'Queen of the Night,' as the sailors have it."

He knew. It was forbidden to call the moon by her name. He swallowed, but found he couldn't say anything.

Her smile widened. "But _you_ know that, don't you, _Esca_?" She winked. "You share a secret with the moon. And a name."

"The oak priests say it's bad luck to say it," he managed to rasp.

"How could it be bad luck, Esca," she asked, "to say so lovely a name?"


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: **_"All of nature's gifts are given freely to those who show proper care and respect."_ – The Outdoor Survivial Handbook, Raymond Mears

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

"What's that one?" Marcus asked, sitting down on a handy fallen log to ease his leg, while his slave dropped yet again to his knees and tirelessly set the end of his digging stick near the edge of a handsome rosette of green leaves.

"It's burdock," Esca answered absently, concentrating on finding and freeing the taproot. Several hours of hard work had caused the diffidence brought on by his initial surprise at Marcus' offer to accompany him on this foraging expedition to wear off. _Where was the taproot? _Now it was more like being accompanied by one of the children of his tribe. Except that unlike the children, Marcus didn't offer to help him to gather the plants. _Why would he? He 'wasn't the slave here.' _

"I thought burdock had prickly burrs with purple flowers on them?"

"It does," Esca grunted. _There it is. _He set himself to clearing the soil away so as to free the long root. Belatedly, he remembered that his interlocutor owned him and had asked him a question. "Umm, the tall stalk with the burrs and flowers doesn't grow until the second year. And not until full summer even then."

"Oh." The Roman watched idly as the Briton's sandaled toes dug into the loose dirt. "Why are you wearing those out here? Light sandals like that are only for inside the house."

Esca frowned at the root he'd just dug up. "I thought it would be nicer than coming out barefoot." He brushed the loose soil off the burdock root and put it in his woven foraging bag, then looked over towards his master. "And you're a fine one to talk. Look at your toga."

Marcus looked. The long cloth, symbol of his citizenship, was streaked with brown from the log's crumbling bark. His lips curved unwillingly. "We make a fine pair."

Esca said nothing more, merely tamped the earth back into place, then looked around to see what else he could find that might be edible.

Spring was fairly well advanced, the shade in the riparian forest deeper than it had been when they'd come out with the bow, the wild plants they pursued more lush.

Early spring was the slack time of the hunting year, the season traditionally set aside for the wild creatures to bear and raise their young. Soon though, it would be time for the hunt. Marcus wondered if he would be able to hunt again. He thought so. He flexed his bad leg. He _hoped _so.

But there were other things he would never do again.

To distract himself from these dark thoughts, he looked around at the plants nearby. "Are these ransoms?" he asked. "Do you want them?"

Esca looked. "Yes, and yes."

Marcus nodded in acknowledgement of the thanks his bondsman had not spoken.

Esca, oblivious to his master's darkening mood, came over to harvest the wild onions. Marcus continued to sit idly on his log, his thoughts a thousand miles away.

In Rome.

* * *

"Why do you stay here?" Marcus asked his uncle one morning.

Uncle Aquila considered his nephew curiously. "Because this is where I live."

"In Rome, you could—"

"I don't live in Rome," Aquila reminded him, coldly. "I live in Calleva."

"Yes, but in R—"

"Marcus!" The old man's watery blue eyes bored into his nephew's green. "What could I do in Rome? What could _any _Aquila do in Rome?" His bony fingers gripped the young man's muscular shoulder. "Believe me, Marcus. We're better off here."

* * *

He couldn't do it. His dreams, his hopes. All gone.

He would never erase his father's disgrace.

"Esca?" he called.

Moments only, then Marcus heard the _shush _of his slave's sandals as he entered the room and looked at his master questioningly.

"Some wine," the young Roman ordered.

The Briton nodded, and silently moved to obey.

* * *

The new footwear was a hybrid: the heavy sole of the Roman caligae combined with the soft leather and closed upper of traditional celtic shoes. Esca wrapped the leggings around his calves, then secured them with strips of leather.

Marcus stood watching him, his own feet and lower legs already so encased. "Better than going barefoot?"

Esca wiggled his toes against the soft leather. For once his feet were warm enough. And dry. "Much better."

His master nodded, satisfied. "Good."

* * *

Linnea knelt to pin the thin wool in place, then looked up at her customer. "I'll sew it this way. That 'fitted' look is the style."

Marcus frowned. His big hands smoothed the skirt of the short tunic, the legs of the bracchae. "It isn't…" he hesitated.

The woman's smooth brow furrowed. "Isn't what, dominus?"

Involuntarily, he glanced over to Esca, who was watching the fitting patiently from an out of the way spot near the door. The slave cocked his head inquiringly. He thought the Marcus' new clothes very becoming.

Marcus stared at his bondsman a moment in silence, his troubled gaze moving from the Brigante's puzzled expression to his short tunic, and calf length bracchae, then looked down at the half-finished garments covering his own limbs. Apparently, that was how these garments were _supposed _to look.

"Dominus?" she asked again.

He turned back to the woman, striving to cover his own uncertainty. "Nothing," he told her. "It's fine."

She nodded. "I'll have it completed in three days time. Will that suffice?"

"It will."

Marcus changed back into his Roman clothes, and within a short time the two young men were standing out on the street next to the main door of the house. The Roman ignored it, heading instead for the corner to go around to the side entrance.

_Weird_, Esca thought. Then, _does he even know? _"Marcus?"

The Roman stopped. "What is it?"

The Brigante pointed at the big door. "This door leads straight into your uncle's house."

"What!?"

"This door," Esca repeated. "It—" he abandoned words, in favor of pushing the door open onto the vestibulum and fauces. "This way is quickest."

* * *

Marcus paused in the atrium to stare at the archery target. "What's this?"

Esca blushed. "It's nothing."

The young Roman began to look as amused as his slave looked uncomfortable. "Nothing, is it? I'd sa—"

"Marcus," Esca dared to interrupt.

"Ye-es," his master responded, not fooled as to his slave's motive in cutting him off.

"What were you going to say about the tunic and bracchae? It isn't _what?_"

Suddenly it was Marcus who looked uncomfortable. "It isn't _manly._" The Roman's expression was priceless. His voice dropped as he confided, "A man's thighs should show."

Esca guffawed.

Marcus was annoyed. "I'm serious."

The Briton struggled to control his glee, since his master didn't like it, but he couldn't help grinning as he reassured the bigger man, "I promise you, Marcus, you can still be a man with your thighs covered."


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note: **_"Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for."_ – Epicurus

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

Among Esca's people, fosterage was common. A family gave up a child, or took in a child, for any number of reasons: to cement political ties, or clan unity, to facilitate the teaching of a trade or profession, occasionally merely from need. Sometimes a child was given at birth, and took milk from the foster mother's breast, sometimes he or she went to the foster family only later, but the ties of fosterage were considered by some to be more sacred and more binding than the ties of blood.

Esca had never been fostered. He'd been glad to be allowed to stay with his parents, to be taught the arts of manhood by Cunoval himself, but it meant that when his parents and his brothers died, he was alone.

If he'd had a milk-brother, someone like Marcus, maybe— but that was foolishness. What was, was. He could not go back and accept fosterage now.

* * *

Dazzling sunlight flooded the forum, painting the merchants' displays generously with all the colors of the rainbow, but Marcus had lost his appreciation for the sights and sounds of the market. It was overwhelmed by his horror at the opaque white contents of the horn cup. He stared at it, appalled. He sniffed it cautiously, then recoiled. "I'm not drinking that!" he finally declared.

"Oh, no?" Amusement rippled under the Briton's lilting voice. "I thought that surgeon wanted you to build up your strength."

"I'm strong enough!"

Esca didn't verbalize an answer, but his look was unimpressed. A truly strong man would be willing to try something new.

The Roman urged what seemed to him his most compelling excuse: "It's disgusting!"

The dairy woman who ran the stall in front of which this argument was taking place was rather inclined to take offence, but Esca returned her scowl with a propitiating smile. "Don't mind him, mother. It's his first time."

Simple joy had coaxed his dimples out of hiding; they danced across the lean cheeks. The dairy woman, charmed, chuffed a half-laugh in response.

Seeing he had won the woman over, the blue-gray eyes shone with merriment. He turned again to his companion. "Scared, huh?"

"I'm _not _sca—"

"Fine. More for me." The Brigante's nimble fingers plucked the cup out of the Roman's hands and raised it to his own lips. The nourishing liquid, still warm from the udder, filled his mouth luxuriously. It was a treat Esca could seldom allow himself, so he let its sweetness roll repeatedly over his tongue, the sensual pleasure almost intoxicating. Finally, eyes closing briefly, he swallowed.

The native beverage had left a white mustache on the slave's upper lip, lending his triangular countenance a comical aspect, which the slightly jug ears did nothing to dispel. "Fear is a terrible thing," he intoned now, milk-coated lips stiff with mock solemnity, golden lashes parting to reveal the teasing smile still in his eyes.

Marcus frowned. He took the cup back. Esca had consumed only half the little vessel's contents. "I'm not afraid," he contradicted, as if for the record. He raised the horn cup and drank off the remainder of the milk, pulling a face as though it were undiluted vinegar. He thunked the empty cup onto the counter. "Satisfied?"

"Very." Esca beamed. He leaned in close to his master. "Now we're milk brothers," he chortled. _Why not? He had to stay as close as the Roman's shadow these days._ White teeth sank into red lips to still his merriment. "How did you like it?"

The Roman's mouth puckered again. "It's all right for the calf, I guess."

"But 'the juice of the barley' for you? That can be arranged. Come on." He grasped Marcus' hand lightly, to tug him bodily towards their next destination. As the two young men moved away, Esca glanced back to the stall's proprietress. "God bless the cow, mother," he said.

"Health go with you and your friend, Esca," she replied.

Esca hestitated, but only for a moment. "Heath stay with you, mother." But his mind was no longer on the dairy woman. It was on his _friend. _

_Was Marcus his friend? _The slave's feet stilled as he glanced aside at his master, his fingers dropping from the Roman's hand.

Observing that his companion was no longer moving, the Roman paused as well. "Esca?"

No answer, and clouds of confusion had crowded the sunny light out of the blue-gray eyes.

"It's the milk, isn't it? It's made you ill." Marcus pulled a comic face. "And I'm next." The big man faked gagging.

Watching his friend's—no, his master's antics, the Briton shook off his bemusement and made shift to answer as best he could. "No, I'm well. It's… it's this way, Marcus."

But he didn't take the Roman's hand again, merely turned to lead the way.

* * *

Esca set the pottery jug down on the table, then seated himself.

"Is that it?" Marcus asked eagerly.

The Briton nodded.

"Is that what?" Uncle Aquila asked, at the same moment his nephew was ordering, "Pour me some."

"It's _korma_." That from Stephanos, his tone the petulant one he used for things that displeased him. "It seems Esca thinks he's too good to drink posca."

Three sets of eyes fastened on the Briton in time to see the fair cheeks suffuse with a wine-red blush. Posca was the drink of soldiers and of slaves. Suitable, in the Hellene's opinion, for everyone at the table. Diluted vinegar, mixed with herbs, Greek in origin (like Stephanos himself), and as bitter as the old slave's disapproval. It was clear he thought his young colleague was getting above himself.

Esca bit his lip, but continued to pour the thick barley beer carefully. "I just thought—"

"I told him to buy it," Marcus interrupted flatly. "No one is going to force you to drink it, Stephanos."

When Marcus' cup was full, Esca drew back with the pitcher and looked at old Aquila. Worry flickered for a moment in the old man's eyes. "I believe I'll stick with posca," the old Roman decided in an effort to maintain the peace. He held out his own cup to Stephanos, who murmured approvingly as he poured, his ire soothed.

Relieved, Esca poured beer into his own cup, and drank gratefully, like a man newly returned from the desert.

"You're a savage, son," Stephanos accused his fellow slave.

"I am that," the Briton agreed.

Marcus smiled down into his beer. "We're _both_ savages."


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note: **Servum non habet personam. _A slave is not a person. _

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

A tricky garment, the toga, but Esca thought he was getting the hang of it. Of _how _to hang it, that is. He'd begged Stephanos to tutor him in the art, and the Hellene agreed to stand still, while his young colleague draped one of Aquila's old togas again and again around the stocky Greek slave. He did not economize his expressions of disapproval, however. "Drape it gently! Artistically! You're wrapping a citizen, you know, a civilized man—a conqueror, not a dead fish!"

Esca couldn't resist. "Aren't I?" he teased, regretting it almost instantly when he saw the old man's expression sag into the beginnings of a very hurt anger. He grasped the old man's fingers in contrition and begged softly, "I didn't mean it, Stephanos. Forgive me."

The old man sighed, much put upon. "Remove the toga, little ungrateful one; fold it properly, then shake it out and try it again. We can't have you turning young Marcus into a mummy."

Esca looked down submissively so as to hide his smile, and began once again to unwind the long length of wool.

* * *

_Ffff-pputtt. _The arrow buried itself in the heart of the target.

Esca pulled another from the quiver, set, drew— _Ffff-pputtt. _Less than a finger's breadth away.

Slender fingers reached back for the next arrow, set, draw**— **_Ffff-putt! _Three in a row.

The Brigante's thin lips spread into a smile of pleasure.

Let Marcus tell him now he _wasn't very good_.

* * *

All the practicing had paid off. Esca made sure the point hung down properly just below his master's left knee, then brought the long cloth around behind the Roman to curve gracefully both above and below his right knee. Marcus accepted the remainder of the long expanse of wool, and Esca help him smooth it over his left shoulder.

To the eye of a native Briton, however, something was missing. "Can't you wear a broach?" Esca asked, though he knew the answer already.

Marcus frowned. "It's not proper to pin it, I've told you that."

Esca could not fathom why Romans considered it 'proper' for their left arms to be so encumbered, but yes, Marcus had told him, so he just nodded.

Marcus and Aquila had been invited to take prandium with some friends of the old Roman, which was his nephew's reason for putting on so much style.

If he hadn't known better, he would have suspected it to be a plot hatched by Stephanos to retaliate against Esca's own efforts to "Britonise" the young master. And who said he knew better?

"We won't be back until cena; we're going on to the bathhouse after." At the word, Marcus saw worry begin to kindle in the blue gray eyes of his slave, and to extinguish it he explained kindly, "You won't need to go this time, Esca."

The only hint of a smile in the slave's face was the deepening of a dimple in one cheek, and the pursing of the mobile lips. "Thank you for that."

"I hope you won't be lonely while I'm away," Marcus teased.

A speculative look graced the Brigante's face. "I think there's something I can do this afternoon," he said.

* * *

"That was quick," Stephanos remarked as Esca reëntered the culina a bare hour after his departure. "I thought you said you'd be gone all afternoon."

"I will be," the younger slave confirmed, busily liberating a double handful of tiny purple berries from his foraging bag and letting them run through his fingers into a wooden bowl. "I just came in to drop these off."

The old Greek's eyes widened. "Where did you find those?"

Esca smirked. "No berry picker worth his salt tells that." He scooped up a few of the little bread cups left over from breakfast. "I'll be back before cena."

"You'd better be back here before your master. What are you doing with that bread?"

The Briton looked worried. "You don't mind, do you? I've a few errands to run yet."

"And you hunger?" the old man suggested.

The unintended double entrendre made his colleague smile. "Yes, I do."

* * *

Hunger sated, Linnea leaned back against the plastered wall, and considered the man sleeping within the circle of her "friendly thighs." He was slender as a greyhound, but strong, for all his slightness of build. She thought about how he would look with a full mustache and his hair grown out long. _Romans._ They'd no notion what made a man _look_ like a man. Still, she liked the way he looked. She stroked the short bronze hair gently. He didn't stir.

_"Sleep while you can_, _a rún, __a_ _stóirín," she thought. The traditional endearments suited him. A secret little treasure. Esca. He was well named. No bad omen at all. _

She ran a hand lightly up his arm, over the blue and black pattern of the marks of the god. Those she knew; her people did the same. Her gentle fingers traced the course of a thin, white scar across his shoulder, cleanly healed, years old. There was another such scar a mere knuckle's width away, another still beyond that. Not disfiguring, merely there, barely visible. Mute testimony to some long ago beating, as the huge white slash across his thigh bore testimony to some long ago battle. Physical proofs of his ability to endure. None of the scars would have barred him from kingship. The white lines, and the broad slash ending in a jagged white star at the side of his knee, all were as smooth to the touch as the rest of his skin, hard muscle visible underneath. And he had no fresh bruises, no unhealed scabs. The Aquilas were treating him well.

She sighed.

He was magnificent.

He stirred at last, and the blue gray eyes were open, gazing calmly into hers, relaxed and at peace with the world.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Good." He snuggled comfortably against her breast. "Did we finish the berries?"

He'd brought them as an offering: sweet, dark berries nestled in thick cream, tucked into little cups of bread. He'd traded some of the berries to the dairy woman in exchange for the cream, he'd told her. It pleased her that he'd not come empty-handed, slave and rockman though he might be.

In answer, Linnea picked up the last of the little confections, and held it while he took a bite, then took a bite herself. A second bite for each of them, and it was gone. As was the afternoon. A pity. He would have to go soon.

"Aquila's invited us to cena next week," she remarked.

"I know."

"Cottia, too. I think your master likes her."

"I think he does."

"Will you be there?"

He exhaled, and she couldn't tell if it was a laugh or a sigh or both. "I will definitely be there."

"Good," she said.


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note: **_Slaves are fully aware that they are not free._ ― Nassim Nicholas Taleb

**Disclaimer: **A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

* * *

_He was serving! _Linnea laughed at herself. _Of course he was serving, he was a slave in this house, what had she thought he'd be doing? _

She had thought he would sit at table with them, as he'd told her he and Stephanos did when the two Romans dined alone.

But they weren't alone tonight.

Disappointment warred with desire. She could have taken him there in the triclinium with his Roman masters (old and young), their ancient Greek slave, her friend Cottia, and Cottia's stuck-up half-Romanized aunt and uncle all watching.

When she thought no one was looking, she let her hand wander up the back of Esca's bare thigh, so easily accessible under the short Roman house tunic. His skin was warm under her palm. Her fingers closed against his leg like a milkmaid at an udder, before releasing him, as she knew she must.

In the circumstances, his response was surprisingly natural. "May I get you something?" he asked, politely.

The weaver's expression was rueful. "I only wish you could."

He smiled sympathetically, but the situation was what it was. She had known from their first meeting that he was only a rockman. A slave. "A honey cake?" he offered.

She sighed. "Yes, please." As he set the plate of desserts down on the low table, her slender fingers had to content themselves with brushing his hand.

Marcus hadn't seen, he was too busy flirting with Cottia, but Aquila wasn't quite so engrossed in his own conversation with Cottia's aunt and uncle.

Unfortunately.

* * *

The scratching at the door was light, but Aquila had been listening for it. "Come," he commanded.

Esca entered, then stopped just inside the door. "Stephanos said you wished to speak to me."

"Yes."

The slave waited, but the old man said no more. Esca wondered if _he_ was supposed to say something. He lowered his eyes submissively and studied the pattern of the tiles on the floor.

"Are you fornicating with the weaver?"

Shock at the bluntness of the inquiry brought his eyes up to meet the Roman's. "I—" He swallowed, then cleared his throat. "Yes. Once, anyway. I mean— yes, I have. I did. Once."

Silence for several beats.

_Why were they talking about this?_ _Had Aquila seen her grab his thigh? Is that where the term 'thigh friend' came from?_

"Do you plan to do so again?"

Esca fought a smile, but it was in the lilt of his voice. "If she offers." He hoped she would.

"Suppose she were to fall pregnant?"

The Brigante shrugged, unconcerned. "She'd foster it, I imagine, as she has her other children."

"Suppose I forbid it?"

The part of Esca's brain that had been indulging in sexual fantasies dumped him unceremoniously back onto the floor of Aquila's study. Dismayed, he asked, "Are you forbidding it?"

"Yes, I most certainly am."

There could be only one answer. Esca sighed. "If she offers again, I'll refuse." The final two words seemed to stick in his throat; they had to be forced out.

Aquila snorted. "Or so you'll tell me. What you'll actually _do _is an entirely different matter."

Two fine lines appeared between the Brigante's brows. "I give you my word," he assured the old man.

"The word of a slave," the old Roman sneered.

The slave's reply was quiet. "It's never been broken."

* * *

Marcus had not missed his uncle's frown, but waited until his Brigante slave had left the room before speaking. "Now who wants to beat him?"

The old Roman stared meditatively at the doorway through which the young Briton had exited and expelled a disapproving grunt. "I don't want to beat him."

"No?" The young man's smoothly inquiring tone seemed to ripple with amusement. "You could have fooled me."

"_He_'s the one fooling you."

Marcus raised a disbelieving brow. "How?"

"You're too free with him," the older man complained. "You're just asking for trouble. You seem to forget that he's your slave, not your friend."

"He chooses to serve me, and I don't treat him any differently than you treat Stephanos."

"Stephanos has been with me for thirty years… and we aren't living in Stephanos' home country."

"We aren't living in Esca's home country either; the Brigantes' territory is a hundred leagues north of here."

"You know what I mean."

"Oh, I do, uncle. Indeed, I do. But it's _you _who is forgetting. It wasn't _I_ who bought him out of the arena and brought him home. That was you. So if you have a problem with Esca, blame _yourself_."


End file.
